UCSB   LIBRARY 
V-  6  W/  9 


«a          A 
9KJ    I 


RH  YM  ES 


OF    THE 


Local  Philosopher. 


A   BEQUEST  TO  THE 


YOUNGER   GENERATION. 


TAUNTON,  MASS., 
1899. 


DAVOL  PRINTING  HOUSE, 
Taunton,  Mass. 


PREFATORY  REMARKS. 


This  Book  so  nearly  reflects  the  personality  of  the 
Author  that  he  deems  it  a  duty  to  warn  those  who  may 
not  care  to  meet  him,  against  studying  the  contents. 

Local  Philosophy  was  not  the  first  title  suggested  by 
the  writer  of  the  couplets  contained  in  the  book,  the  first 
instalment  being  presented  under  the  heading  of  "  Local 
Lunacy."  As  the  name  of  the  verse  seemed  to  descend 
as  a  heritage  upon  the  writer,  he  evidently  narrowly 
escaped  being  known  as  the  Local  Lunatic,  a  designation 
perhaps  quite  as  fitting,  but  less  euphonious  to  a  sensitive 
ear. 

For  the  many  pleasant  and  friendly  words  given  the 
first  volume,  the  writer  is  grateful,  and  he  is  certain  that 
the  present  book  is  an  improvement  over  its  predecesscr 
and  is  the  last  of  its  kind. 

IT.  AV.  r. 


CLASSIFIED 
TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


1 — THE  LOCAL  PHILOSOPHER. 

'2 — LOCAL  LYRICS. 

3 — RHYMES,  PHILOSOPHICAL  AND  PERSONAL. 

4 — SERMONETTES. 

5 — PHILOSOPHIC  SALAD. 

6 — SOBERER  RHYMES. 

7 — CHRISTMAS  VERSES. 

8 — MEMORIAL  TRIBUTES. 

9 — RHYMES  FOR  THE  OCCASION. 


i  1  (5) 


THE  LOCAL  PHILOSOPHER 

IS  INTRODUCED. 


Shades  of  Diogenes  in  modern  guise ; 
Looking  at  Truth  with  half-beclouded  eyes ; 
No  selfish  axe  to  grind,  no  spoil  to  seize, 
No  foe  to  punish  and  no  friend  to  please ; 
He  draws,  by  gazing  through  the  lens  of  Fact, 
Conclusions  less  enchanting  than  exact; 
Tearing  the  veil  from  Fancy's  grand  domain, 
Though  it  may  give  a  fellow-mortal  pain, 
Yet  in  a  kindly  way  re-decorates 
The  hours  we  fain  had  yielded  to  our  Fates. 
Despising  shams,  he  may  be  often  stirred 
Into  a  seeming  sharp,  ungenerous  word, 
Yet  not  unwilling  on  a  soberer  thought, 
To  be  with  better  grace  and  manners  taught. 
Does  some  one  tread  upon  his  favorite  corn  ? 
He  launches  forth  a  thunderbolt  of  scorn  ; 
Yet  doth  the  grim  old  fellow  in  his  way, 
His  debts  of  gratitude  delight  to  pay ; 
As  doctors,  tender  even  while  they  kill, 
Prefer  to  slaughter  with  a  sugared  pill. 


Poor  old  Philosopher!  thyself  a  sham, 
Condemned  in  many  a  self-writ  epigram, 
Preaching  to  others  in  thy  cynic  mood, 
How  one  excels,  while  one  falls  short  of  good ; 
Pointing  for  us,  with  egotistic  pride, 
A  path  which  doubtless  thou  hast  never  tried ; 
IJasping  thy  satire,  heartless  and  unkind, 
Yet  to  thine  own  faults  bigoted  and  blind  ; 
What  art  thou  but  a  humbug?  to  reflect 
The  veriest  errors  thou  wouldst  fain  correct  ; 
More  worthless  even  in  thine  own  conceit, 
Than  is  the  humblest  dirt  beneath  thy  feet ; 
Know  that  the  poor  philosophy  of  Earth 
Possesseth  but  a  transitory  worth, — 
Scarce  given  life  enough  or  show  of  power, 
To  smooth  the  trials  of  a  passing  hour. 

Yet  doth  grim  old  Diogenes  grind  on, 

Though  tongues  may  wag  and  critics  frown  anon, 

And  if  the  kindly  reader  shall  discern 

Some  helpful  lesson  he  may  easy  learn, — 

Some  thought  which  truer  peace  of  mind  invokes, 

Then  his  Philosophy  is  not  a  hoax. 


LOCAL  LYRICS. 


1 — KXOTTY   WALK. 

2 — THK  PARSON'S  KIDK. 

3 — BLACK  JACK. 

4 — UNCLE  JIM. 

5 — AT  MOUNT  PLEASANT — (A  KKVKUIK.) 


(8) 


KNOTTY  WALK. 

(A  GHOSTLY  IDYL.) 


I. 

Old  memories  of  Knotty  Walk, 

Could  you  unseal  your  lips  and  talk, 

What  tales  you'd  tell,  what  ghosts  would  stalk, 

(If  one  such  freaks  of  ghosts  believes,) 

From  'neath  the  shadows  of  your  eaves. 

I  rest  me  in  the  barber's  chair, 

The  while  the  artist  clips  my  hair, 

If  haply  finds  he  any  there, 

Which  Time  has  kindly  deigned  to  spare, 

(The  most  being  gone,  the  Lord  knows  where ;) 

And,  posing  thus,  my  glances  fall 

Upon  the  decorated  wall 

That  bounds  the  said  tonsorial  hall. 

Not  all  his  eloquence  of  tongue, 

In  story -telling  changes  rung, 

Or  antiquated  chestnuts  sprung 

On  guileless  ears  like  mine,  and  young, 

Such  as  the  knight  of  comb  and  brush 

Is  wont  our  restless  moods  to  hush, 


(0; 


Can  quite  divert  my  chastened  thought 

From  off  the  view  mine  eyes  have  sought : 

Before  me  in  perspective  bold, 

A  picture  of  the  rare  and  old, 

And,  judging  by  its  history  told, 

Deserving  frame  of  richest  gold. 

I  cast  a  venerated  glance 

Upon  the  old  historic  manse, 

And  backward  shoots  my  vision  fast 

Through  divers  decades  of  the  past : 

A  lad,  I  gazed  with  curious  eye 

At  relic  of  the  days  gone  by, 

And  seemed  it  but  a  ruin  then, 

To  me,  an  urchin  less  than  ten ; — 

While  in  each  antiquated  nook, 

It  needed  but  a  hasty  look 

To  resurrect  some  dreaded  spook : 

Anon  as  years  would  glide  along, 

Less  would  the  ghosts  and  goblins  throng, 

And  shades  with  which  the  spot  was  rife, 

Materialized  to  real  life. 

Here,  have  I  heard  the  gossips  say, 

A  Judge  first  saw  the  light  of  day ; 

Over  yon  threshold  strode  in  state 

Our  Commonwealth's  chief  magistrate. 

Lawyers  and  doctors  here  hung  out 

Their  shingles  to  the  folks  about ; 

Tradesmen  of  every  class  and  craft 

Have  raked  these  quarters  fore  and  aft ; 

The  "butcher"  and  his  friend  the  "baker" 

And,  very  like,  the  "candle-maker," 


(10) 


From  first  to  last,  have  played  their  part 
Within  this  ancient  work  of  art 
Transformed  into  a  business  mart. 


II. 


W  ithin  the  building's  northern  wing, ' 

Did  Uncle  Sam  his  mailbags  bring, 

When  correspondence,  then  unpaid, 

\\  as  thin  as  circus  lemonade. 

No  wrapper  with  adhesive  glue, 

Or  postal  stamp  in  red  or  blue, 

Connived  to  send  a  message  through. 

Only  a  common  foolscap  sheet, 

Enfolded  any  way  but  neat, 

The  edges  with  a  wafer  stuck, 

If  he  who  did  it  had  good  luck ; — 

This  rude  epistle,  crudely  mailed, 

Sometimes  went  through  and  sometimes  failed, 

And  if  by  chance  the  letter  came, 

It  cost  ten  cents  to  bag  the  game. 

III. 

Near  to  the  Postal  Service  site, 
Our  memory  lets  in  the  light 
Upon  one  Barnes,  a  harness-wright. 
Now  Barnes  had  been  a  soldier  bold, 
In  war  with  Mexico  enrolled, 


(ii) 


Before  the  days  of  Boys  in  Blue 

And  when  old  veterans  were  few. 

What  wonder  that  the  urchin's  sight 

Should  he  transfigured  with  delight, 

As  in  his  sanctum- walls  we  crept 

Where  his  accoutrements  were  kept ; 

For  in  his  shop  with  proper  pride 

Were  hung  his  trophies,  side  by  side, — 

To  our  admiring  gaze  a  sign 

Of  heroism  quite  divine. 

With  Barnes  the  first  and  Barnes  the  second, 

(For  here  must  Barnes's  son  be  reckoned 

As  one  who  gave  his  strength  and  life 

To  flatten  out  rebellious  strife,) — 

With  Sammy  Breck,  another  name 

Still  living  on  the  roll  of  fame, 

Whose  "dad"  expounded  common  law 

To  those  who  felt  its  dreaded  paw ; — 

With  these  and  other  sons  of  Mars 

Who  gathered  glory  in  the  wars, 

And  some  of  whom  have  earned  their  stars, 

Old  Knotty  Walk  has  made  a  score 

That  patriot  hearts  may  not  ignore. 

IV. 

Among  the  patriarchs  of  old 

Whose  memory  is  not  quite  cold, 

My  thought  reflects  a  worthy  pair 

Who  lived  and  flourished  then  and  there. 


(12) 


Old  "Daddy"  Wilson— «J."— I  think 

His  prefix  was  when  dipped  in  ink; 

Likewise  his  spouse,  called  "Ma'am"  for  short, 

AVhen  courtesy  was  faintly  taught ; 

Two  of  the  so-called  "bucket  drops" 

That  swell  the  flood  of  earth's  vast  crops. 

Now  Daddy  Wilson,  in  a  way. 

Was  quite  important  for  his  day. 

The  picture  we  are  prone  to  draw, 

Would  find  him  filing  some  old  saw, 

Relieving  razors  from  a  flaw, 

Repairing  scissors,  tempering  knives, 

(Thus  also  tempering  fretful  wives) 

And  doing  all  the  thousand  things 

That  bear  the  name  of  tinkerings. 

An  odd  old  man,  serenely  bald, 

Who  often  found  his  glasses  stalled 

So  high  up  on  his  cocoanut, 

His  eyes  might  quite  as  well  be  shut. 

But  Daddy  Wilson  had  a  Dame 

Who  quite  outshone  her  lord  in  fame ; 

Who  deftly  steered  a  huckster-shop 

And  sold  sweet-meats  and  ginger-pop. 

The  small  boy  then,  who  owned  a  cent, 

Lacked  peace  of  mind  till  it  was  spent, 

And  shrewd  Dame  Wilson  had  an  eye 

That  ogled  boys  in  passing  by 

And  turned  their  thoughts  to  cake  and  pie, 

(A  tempting  bait  to  such  as  I.) 


(13; 


The  small  boy's  parent  often  tried 
To  switch  the  tempter  off  one  side 
By  telling  bugbear  tales  and  such 
Of  "Dame's"  contaminating  touch, 
And  said  boy's  feelings  strove  to  hurt 
By  hints  of  eating  "pecks  of  dirt," 
And  even  going  so  far  to  say 
In  most  unappetizing  way, 
That  "Dame"  in  lieu  of  daintier  stuff, 
Xutm  egged  her  custard  pies  with  snuff. 
But  worse  than  this  we'd  have  to  take, 
The  boy's  abiding  faith  to  shake  ; 
We  only  knew  she  served  us  best 
And  sent  us  off  supremely  blest. 
But  gone  the  Wilson's  name  and  fame, 
Gone  Wilson  J.  and  Wilson  Dame  ; 
Fulfilled  their  humble  mission  here 
As  tenants  of  this  mundane  sphere. 
I  see  them  in  my  fancy's  eye 
En-route  to  mansions  in  the  sky, 
Two  cheerful  cherubs,  hand  in  hand, 
With  tickets  for  that  better  land, 
Where  it  is  deemed  of  slight  import  ' 
If  snuff  or  nutmegs  hold  the  fort. 

V. 

As  added  years  flew  o'er  my  head, 
And  added  mortals  must  be  fed, 
I  found  my  footsteps  once  more  bent 
Where  squandered  I  my  childish  cent. 


(H) 


No  more  did  my  experienced  eye 

Light  greedily  on  cake  or  pie  ; 

Necessity  must  hence  prepare 

The  poor  man's  meagre  bill  of  fare, 

With  precious  little  cake  to  spare. 

I  found  old  Daddy  Wilson's  space 

The  people's  favorite  market  place : 

Where  piped  the  voice  of  Wilson  J. 

In  feeble  echoes  long  away, 

Xo\v  rang  the  loud  stentorian  cry 

And  cheery  tones  of  "Uncle  Bi," 

Whose  wholesome  kindness  to  the  poor, 

Should  pass  him  straight  through  Heaven's  door. 

Peace  to  the  ashes  of  a  man 

Built  on  a  broad  and  whole-souled  plan, 

Whose  generous  heart  with  courage  bold 

Was  bigger  than  the  ox  he  sold  ; 

And  whose  abhorrence  of  a  sham 

Brought  out  an  honest  Christian  "D — n." 

VI. 

In  Eighteen  Hundred  Sixty  One, 

And  thence  until  the  war  was  done, 

Of  all  the  noted  spots  in  town 

Old  Knotty  Walk  is  "noted"  down  ; 

(X.  B. — weak  pun,  but  spare  your  frown  ;) 

In  pent  up  quarters,  six  by  eight, 

(Which  doth  not  much  exaggerate,) 

Would  crowds  of  people  congregate 


(15) 


At  early  morn  and  often  late 

To  hear  the  latest  news  to  date 

That  bore  upon  the  nation's  fate. 

Here  doth  my  memory  revive 

A  youth  exceedingly  alive, 

Whose  dialect  was  fresh  and  new 

And  fairly  tinged  the  ether  blue. 

Lord !  how  that  youngster  used  to  whoop 

Like  rooster  in  a  chicken- coop. 

O,  Charles,  as  I  review  you  here, 

Poetic  license,  must,  I  fear, 

Appropriate  a  kindly  tear 

To  blot  out  much  that  seems  so  queer 

About  thy  juvenile  career ; 

In  Time's  revenges,  which  are  sure, 

The  law  of  Average  will  cure 

That  which  seems  crude  and  immature. 

Youth  hath  its  foibles — praised  be  Heaven 

That  in  the  future  things  may  even, 

And,  like  the  urchin  of  our  line, 

Approximate  toward  divine. 

VII. 

Old  Knotty  Walk,  I  may  not  bid 
My  hand  to  seal  thy  coffin-lid 
And  quite  forget  the  cobbler's  den 
Which  held  such  pleasure  for  me  then. 
Within  the  building's  eastern  wing 
These  merry  men  would  toil  and  sing, 


(16) 


And  hour  by  hour  I  heard  their  jokes 
And  listened  to  their  hammer-strokes. 
Long  years  ago  they  passed  away, 
But  visit  me  a  while  to-day, 
With  claim  that  cannot  be  denied, 
To  view  the  place  they  occupied. 

()  shelter  for  a  hundred  years 

Of  human  hopes  and  human  fears  ; 

()  walls  whose  echoes  rang  with  glee 

In  hours  of  mirth  and  revelry  ; 

()  shadows  peering  through  the  gloom 

That  shrouds  each  quaint,  ghost-haunted  room  ; 

From  every  door  and  window  pane, 

I  seem  to  catch  a  glimpse  again 

Of  some  past  pilgrim  of  the  town 

Who  long  since  laid  his  burden  down. 

Good  bye,  old  friends ;  good  bye,  old  walls ; 

King  out  the  scene  ;  the  curtain  falls. 

~  * 

I  summoned  thee  with  rev'rent  hand 
From  out  thy  rest  in  shadow-land  ; 
With  sadness  more  than  I  may  tell 
I  leave  thee  with  a  kind  farewell. 


(17) 


THE  PARSON'S  RIDE. 

READ  AT  CHAUTAUQUA  CLUB. 


I. 

This  story  is  one  of  historic  lore, 

Of  twenty  years  ago  or  more; 

A  story  that  never  was  told  before ; — 

Not  much  of  a  story  as  stories  go, 

But  the  point  of  which,  as  you  easily  know, 

Depends  on  whether  the  actual  facts 

Make  up  for  the  merit  the  telling  lacks  ; 

And  the  story  I  tell,  or  the  song  that  I  sing, 

(Whatever  you  style  the  rendering) 

Is  not  a  feather  from  Fancy's  wing, 

Or  a  long  drawn  bow  on  Fiction's  string, 

But  a  regular  bona-fide  thing, 

Wherein  in  a  sorrowful  role  did  shine 

A  respected  clerical  friend  of  mine. 

Now,  this  friend  was  not  an  adventurous  man, 

Built  on  a  harum-scarum  plan; 

It  wasn't  a  part  of  his  gospel  creed 

To  indulge  in  fun  that  he  did  not  need, 

Or  secular  things  to  unduly  heed ; 


(18) 


A  novel  he  seldom  cared  to  read, 

And  of  wine  and  cigars  used  little  indeed, 

Nor  were  his  finances  made  to  bleed 

In  betting  <>i)  the  rate  of  speed 

That  might  be  wrung  from  the  winning  steed. 

His  opinion  of  cards  we  never  knew, 

But  we  don't  believe  that  he  ever  drew 

A  fraudulent  Jack 

From  the  back  of  the  pack, 
To  play  a  trick  on  me  or  you  ; 
And  dancing?  Well,  he  may  have  done  it, 
Hut  only  as  women  choose  a  bonnet — 
For  Fashion's  sake — and  not  because 
Of  anything  founded  on  Reason's  laws. 
But  to  sum  him  up  in  an  off-hand  way, 
He  cared  for  work  much  more  than  play, 
Which  is  quite  in  advance  of  what  you  can  say, 
Of  most  of  the  fellows  we  meet  to-day  ; 
This  fairly  represents  the  chap 
That  forms  the  subject  of  our  mishap. 


II. 


From  Westville  Hamlet  to  Taunton  Green 
Is  as  straight  a  way  as  ever  was  seen, 
With  only  a  couple  of  miles  between, 
And  an  easy  path  to  follow  I  ween, 
And  even  a  minister's  spavined  beast 
Should  make  the  trip  in  an  hour  at  least. 


But  on  one  weird  and  stormy  night, 
When  the  moon  and  stars  were  hid  from  sight ; 
When  darkness  was  naught  but  a  solid  abyss. 
And  Egypt  was  sunlight,  compared  to  this, 
Our  friend  hitched  up  his  ancient  plug, 
By  the  glow  of  a  transient  lightning  bug, 
And  made  a  trip  which  in  merited  fame 
Should  immortalize  the  rider's  name. 

III. 

But  why  this  drive  that  fateful  hour, 
In  face  of  such  a  drenching  shower 

As  would  make  old  Noah 

In  jealousy  roar, 
Because  he  plied  his  ancient  oar 
So  many  centuries  before, 
And  lost  his  chance  to  tie  this  score  ? 
There's  a  saying  somewhere  down  in  the  books 
By  one  of  your  cynical  bachelor  crooks, 
That  in  every  case  of  trouble  and  bother, 
A  woman  is  tied  at  one  end  or  the  other ; 

Of  course  your  bard 

Doesn't  speak  by  the  card, 
His  lot  not  being  uncommonly  hard  ; 
But  we  find  it  an  easy  affair  to  trace 
The  woman  who  shone  in  the  parson's  case 
And  started  him  off  on  a  wild  goose  chase. 

For  it  came  to  pass, 

That  a  certain  lass, 
Who  wished  to  attend  a  Chautauqua  class, 


(20) 


Pre-empted  a  seat  by  the  Paison's  side 
And  shared  his  lot  on  this  evening  ride. 

IV. 

And  now  farewell  while  we  take  our  leave. 

With  never  a  thought  there  was  cause  to  grieve, 

As  away  they  go  on  that  stormy  eve, 

For  who  would  ever  dare  to  believe 

What  a  web  of  wroe  that  ride  could  weave. 

And  as  Oliver  Wendell,  whose  name  was  Holmes, 

Remarks  with  feeling  in  one  of  his  "pomes": 

-We'll  surrender  their  forms 

To  the  God  of  the  storms, 

The  lightning  and  gale," 

The  snow,  rain  and  hail, 

And  all  that's  attached  to  the  weather  detail ; 
For  if  sparrows  are  kindly  shown  the  way, 
Why,  preachers,  of  course,  should  fare  better  than  they. 
Once  more  farewell  as  away  they  go, 
On  a  journey  so  eternally  slow 
That  before  they  reached  the  town  below 
His  fair  companion's  cup  of  woe 
Would  fill  to  the  brim  and  overflow, 
Because  her  cake  was  mostly  dough. 

V. 

From  the  start  to  the  finish  the  record  is  lost, 
The  parson  not  deeming  it  worth  the  cost. 

i  2  (21) 


And  from  all  you  have  ever  heard  him  say. 
Me  has  quite  forgotten  that  trying  day. 
But  we  have  learned  that  late  that  night, 
A  clerical-got- up  sort  of  wight 
Was  found  in  the  sorriest  kind  of  a  plight 
On  the  track'  of  the  county  cattle-show  site. 

No  mortal  below 

Will  ever  know 

How  many  times  about  that  track 
His  steed  had  been  obliged  to  tack, 
Or  gather  from  the  sorry  jade 
A  record  of  the  time  she  made. 
Of  course  no  one  would  ever  dare 
To  hint  that  the  minister  wanted  to  swear, 
Yet  we  reckon  that  many  a  Bible  word, 
With  more  than  usual  emphasis  stirred, 
On  the  cattle-show  ground  that  night  was  h«-ard, 
And  that  never  before  rang  out  so  strong 
The  cry — "How  long,  ()  Lord,  how  long!" 

VI. 

Ah  !  Parson  Blank, 

You'll  little  thank 

Your  humble  servant,  the  rhyming  crank, 
For  spreading  abroad  to  the  world  outside 
The  painful  facts  of  that  evening  ride, 
Y»-t  we  all  are  rapped  by  Fate  at  times, 
And  even  the  fellow  that  made  the  rhymes 


Remembers  his  little  escapade 

Which  he  wouldn't  for  worlds  have  dragged  on  parade. 

It  certainly  could  not  be  charged  to  you 

That  the  road  that  night  ran  all  askew, 

And  a  turnpike  way  as  straight  as  a  line 

From  a  couple  of  miles  stretched  out  to  nine. 

I  know  there  were  some  who  wickedly  said 

The  Chautauqua  student  muddled  your  head, 

But  this  was  only  gossiping  chat, 

And  of  course  we  couldn't  take  stock  in  that ; 

And  other  ones  asked  in  peculiar  tone: 

"Does  he  always  let  whiskey  and  such  alone  ?" 

But  those  were  fellows  who  couldn't  be  just, 

Who  never  take  any  person  on  trust, 

Who  make  it  a  practice  to  go  on  a  bust, 

And  so  they  believe  that  a  parson  must. 

Oh  !  no,  you  can't  make  us  believe 

That  liquor,  or  any  daughter  of  Eve 

Could  lead  his  head  so  far  astray 

As  to  make  him  give  himself  away, 

But  rather  one  of  those  curious  haps 

That  Providence  sets  as  human  traps, — 

Which  mortal  man  has  labored  in  vain 

On  logical  grounds  to  clearly  explain  ; 

To  some  such  scapegoat  we  ascribe 

Hard  luck  and  all  its  kindred  tribe. 


Long  years  ago  this  verse  was  spun 
And  carelessly  woven  in  frolicsome  fun, 


(23) 


Hut  alack !  for  the  ravage  of  ruthless  Time 

A  soberer  vein  creeps  into  my  rhyme ; 

Our  friend  the  parson  is  laid  at  rest 

With  the  honest  souls  who  have  lived  their  best, 

And  I  doff  my  jest  in  a  reverent  mood 

To  the  ashes  of  one  so  true  and  good. 

May  his  kindly  spirit  know  no  pain 

As  we  take  the  humorous  ride  again, 

And  his  memory  be  no  less  revered 

Hy  the  hearts  that  the  pleasant  lines  have  cheered. 

I  somehow  fancy  that  we  may  be  loved 

The  more  for  the  joy  that  our  mirth  has  moved, 

And  I  sing  my  song  in  the  fullest  belief 

That  its  measure  brings  our  friend  no  grief. 

MORAL. 

All  men  may  come  to  grief;  the  path  of  life 

Is  full  of  darkest  ways  and  stumbling  blocks ; 

Even  in  safest  poise  our  lot  is  rife 

With  danger  from  rude,  unexpected  knocks. 

The  preacher  and  the  layman  share  alike 

In  all  the  common  hardships  of  the  race, 

And  fate  is  quite  as  prone  to  roughly  strike 

The  saint  as  soon  as  sinner  in  the  face. 

This  lesson  we  might  teach  ;  take  heed 

On  ever}-  journey  that  you  undertake; 

Not  to  rely  too  heavily  on  speed, 

Which  does  not  always  reach  the  winning  stake. 

A  moderate  slowness  may  seem  somewhat  tame, 

Hut  probably  you'll  get  there  all  the  same. 


BLACK  JACK. 


A  MEMORY  OF  WEIR  STREET. 


Way  back  in  the  days  of  my  juvenile  past, 

There  were  pictures  of  childhood  whose  colors  were  fast ; 

And  the  years  that  have  sped 

O'er  my  thinly  clad  head 

Only  show  how  our  early  impressions  will  last. 
'Twas  a  curious  burgh — this  old  township  of  ours, 
Filled  with  legends  that  idleness  fondly  devours, 
And  in  stirring  the  embers  of  memory's  host, 
I  have  raked  from  the  ashes  full  many  a  ghost. 
In  a  little,  old  shanty  not  far  down  the  street, 
On  a  site  where  convivial  spirits  now  meet; 

(And  to  better  locate, 

Let  the  writer  here  state — 

Strike  a  line  from  Main  street,  keep  an  eye  to  the  left, 
Till  you  come  to  a  shop  of  its  tenants  bereft, 
Round  the  corner  of  which  the  curious  eye 
A  phenomenal  vine  of  the  grape  may  espy.) 

Just  about  on  that  spot 

Did  we  small  boys  pay  "scot" 
To  a  "darkey"  who  dealt  in  cake,  candy  and  pie. 


Now  this  quizzical  gent  of  an  ebony  hue 
Was  a  curious  sample  of  human  to  view, 

With  a  hump  on  his  back, 

And  most  gloomily  black, 

Well  known  the  town  over  as  ancient  Black  Jack. 
There  was  much  in  his  feature  and  more  in  his  shape 
That  suggested  a  brotherly  kin  to  the  ape. 

I  can  see  the  old  "coon" 

On  a  warm  afternoon, — 
One  of  nature's  inharmonies  shorn  of  all  tune, 

Half  asleep,  half  awake, 

With  an  eye  to  his  cake, 
And  extremely  alive  to  a  chance  on  the  make. 

Of  his  age  no  man  knew, 

But  if  half  told  were  true 

He  had  lived  the  most  part  of  a  century  through. 
Indeed,  there  were  those  who  enlarged  on  the  truth, 
And  facetiously  claimed  that  the  date  of  his  youth 
Required  a  "B.  C."  and  boldly  declared 
That  Jack  was  an  infant  that  Herod  had  spared. 

But  we  can't  be  exact 

With  regard  to  each  fact, 
As  history  often  gets  fearfully  whacked. 

Yet  suffice  it  to  say 

That  there  lingers  to-day 
In  the  minds  of  old  stagers  a  luminous  ray 
Of  remembrance  concerning  this  person  of  shade, 
Who  was  known  as  Black   Jack — more  correctly,  John 
Slade; 


(26) 


And  I  fancy  when  travelling  through  Weir  street  some 

night, 
'Mid  the  spectre-like  shadows  that  form  in  the  light, 

That  perhaps  I  shall  meet 

Poor  old  Jack  on  the  street, 
And  gather  the  news  from  his  latest  retreat ; 
For  that  Jack  had  a  soul  never  harbor  a  doubt, 
And  that  Jack  owns  a  ghost  that  can  ramble  about, 
Is  as  certain  as  any  or  all  of  the  facts 
That  are  borne  out  by  Testament,  pulpit  or  tracts. 
'Twas  a  dreary  existence  he  led  upon  earth, 
Minus  all  that  can  make  one's  existence  of  worth ; 
Small  knowledge  he  had  of  the  why  and  the  whence 
Of  his  being,  and  knowing  much  less  of  the  hence. 
Grant  his  spirit  a  chance  in  the  ages  to  come 
To  haunt  the  grim  shades  of  his  whilom  old  home, 

Where  are  spirits  to-day 

That  are  blocking  the  wa}% 
Less  divine  than  the  soul  that  enlivened  Jack's  clay. 

And  the  Lord  has  made  thin 

The  color  of  skin, 
So  it's  fair  to  presume  that  He'll  summon  Jack  in. 

Here's  kind  thought  for  Black  Jack, 

With  no  pack  on  his  back 
To  hamper  his  race  on  the  heavenly  track ; 

And  here's  hoping  that  we 

May  find  record  as  free 
From  the  follies  and  vices  of  life  as  did  he. 


(27) 


UNCLE  JIM. 


Drives  the  coachman  through  the  streets. 

All  the  day ; 
Greeting  every  one  he  meets 

On  the  way. 

Forty  years  or  more  has  seen 
Him  going  through  the  same  routine, — 
Driving  to  and  from  the  Green, 

So  they  say. 

Truer  knight  of  rein  and  whip, 

Hard  to  find ; 
Never  with  a  saucy  lip 

Seems  inclined ; 
Kind  to  all  the  boys  as  well, 
As  you  never  hear  them  tell 
That  he  notices  the  yell — 

"Whip  behind." 

Many  rides  he's  given  free 

To  the  poor; 
Greater  saint  than  you  or  me, 

I  am  sure. 

But  it  grieves  us  to  rehearse, — 
Often  helped  the  lame  in  purse, 
Who  took  no  pains  to  reimburse, 

Evermore. 

Philosophic  kind  of  man — 
Uncle  James, 


(28) 


Though  he  mayn't  approve  our  plan — 

Calling  names. 
Every  day  is  peaceful  spent; 
Though  he  hasn't  made  a  cent, 
Yet  he's  just  as  well  content, 

So  he  claims. 

When  or  why  he  struck  the  town. 

No  one  knows; 
Koads  were  bad  and  fares  were  down, 

I  suppose ; 

Though  this  jovial  knight  of  reins 
In  his  merry  mood  maintains 
That  the  roads  are  always  "lanes" 

Where  he  goes. 

Blest  be  cheery  Uncle  Jim 

All  his  days ; 
Would  that  we  were  more  like  him — 

Many  ways ; 

Would  that  Fortune  might  send  down 
On  our  bald  and  shining  crown, 
As  on  his,  no  shadowy  frown, — 

Only  praise. 

When  he  climbs  the  "Golden  Stair" 

Some  bright  day, 
He'll  not  have  to  drop  a  fare 

Or  to  pay ; 

Gabriel's  voice  will  reach  his  ear — 
"He  whose  record  shines  so  clear, 
Needs  to  show  no  tickets  here;" 

"Step  this  way." 

(Uncle  Jim"  has  since  climbed  the   Golden    Stair-,   ami 
there  is  no  doubt  but  that  he  occupies  a  reserved  seat.) 


AT  MOUNT  PLEASANT. 

(A   REVERIE.) 


I  stand  within  the  city  of  the  dead  ; 
I  need  but  idly  cast  ray  eyes  around 
To  note  the  spot  where  many  a  grassy  mound 
Has  given  shelter  to  some  weary  form 
Who,  from  the  beatings  of  Life's  cruel  storm, 

Has  pillowed  here  in  sleep  his  weary  head ; 

Has  ceased  to  struggle  with  his  hopes  and  fears; 
Has  fought  his  battle  bravely  to  the  last ; 

And,  save  the  homage  of  a  few  brief  tears, 
Left  to  a  sadly-soon  forgotten  past. 

And  here,  where  earthly  bonds  relax  their  power. 
And  human  passions  shall  no  more  be  stirred  ; 

Where,  in  the  quiet  of  an  evening  hour, 
Almost  a  whisper's  echo  might  be  heard, 

And  seems  an  easy  task  for  mortal  hand 

To  touch  the  borders  of  another  land; — 

So  fair  this  spot,  and  yet,  alas !  so  drear, 

A  weird  enchantment  ever  lingering  near, 

Inviting  rest  in  such  a  dubious  voice, 

One  well  might  shudder  e'er  he  makes  the  choice; 


(30) 


Here  may  we  come  for  thought ;  the  soul  of  man 
Would  scarcely  dare  this  sacred  place  profane 

With  grosser  life;  with  petty  scheme  and  plan 
That  drag  existence  to  its  lowest  plane. 

And  on  the  marble's  face  I  read  of  one 

Almost  forgotten  with  the  lapse  of  years, 
Who  shared  in  earlier  days  my  boyish  fun 

And  mingled  with  my  own  his  grief  and  tears ; 
And  I  am  thinking — had  my  friend  been  spared 
To  tread  the  path  of  active  life  till  now, 
What  lofty  purposes  he  might  have  dared — 

What  well-earned  laurels  placed  upon  his  brow, 
All !  friend,  companion,  we  may  never  know 

How  much  of  life  was  buried  in  thy  grave ; 

How  much  of  what  was  noble,  true  and  bra  vi- 
llas never  come  to  fruitage  here  below; 
But  we  may  build  an  ideal  in  our  thought, 

So  richly  happy  in  the  "might  have  been," 
That  all  reality  should  sink  to  naught 

Beside  the  visions  of  the  fair  unseen  : 
And  we  may  thank  kind  Providence  for  this — 

Perhaps  the  greatest  boon  that  mortals  know, 
That  his  might  be  to  taste  of  human  bliss, 

But  not  to  drain  the  dregs  of  human  woe. 
Sleep  on,  dear  friend,  in  blissfulness  of  peace ; 
The  sorrows  of  the  living  never  cease, 
And  all  these  years  in  peaceful  slumber  spent, 
Have  marked  a  restful  season  of  content. 

Man  of  the  world,  whose  tireless,  busy  life 
lias  made  existence  little  but  a  strife; 


(31) 


Who  only  sees  within  Earth's  fair  domain, 
An  endless  battle-ground  for  sordid  gain, 
'Twere  well  at  times  you  should  a  moment  spare 
And  drop  this  everlasting  round  of  care ; 
Is  is  not  worth  your  while  an  hour  to  give 
To  better  learn  for  what  and  whom  you  live  ? 
To  share  the  good  with  which  your  lot  is  blessed, 
With  those  a  harsher  fate  has  sore  oppressed  ? 
For  you  and  I  must  come  to  this  some  day ; 

Some  day  will  lie  neglected  and  alone, 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  soulless  stone 
That  has  but  empty  compliments  to  pay ; 
That  speaks  in  mocking  tones  in  stranger's  ears, 

A  tale  of  virtues  that  we  ne'er  possessed, 
While  friends  who  knew  our  weakness  drop  their  tears 

To  plead  for  faults  of  which  we  stood  confessed. 
Through  all  the  ages  years  shall  come  and  go ; 
The  tides  of  life  resistless  ebb  and  flow, 
And  day  by  day  an  unrelenting  hand 
Shall  lead  new  comers  to  the  shadow  land. 
Like  these,  they  too  shall  sleep  a  dreamless  sleep, 
While  sun  and  moon  and  stars  their  vigils  keep 
To  guard  in  all  that's  beautiful  and  best, 
The  endless  slumbers  of  a  world  of  rest. 


(32) 


(33) 


RHYMES; 

PHILOSOPHIC  AND  PERSONAL. 


1 — A  PULPIT 'ECHO. 

2 — BLIFKINS. 

3 — REFLECTIONS  FROM  THANATOPSIS. 

4 — NOT  UNHAPPY. 

5 — ACKOSTICAL. 

6 — MY  NEIGHBOR  AND  I. 

7 — SPECULATION  IN  FUTURES. 

8 — SALAD  FOR  THE  CONCEITED. 

9 — REVIEW    OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL-BOYS. 
10 — A  SPASM  OF  CHARITY. 
11 — NOT  so  OLD  AS  HE  THINKS. 
12 — SKEESICK — A  DOMESTIC  IDYL. 
13 — MAY,  1882 — REAL  AND  IDEAL. 
14 — SCHOOL  DAY  MEMORIES. 

15_P0LO. 

16 — MY  RHYMES. 


(34) 


A  PULPIT  ECHO. 


"Day   unto   day  uttereth  speech,  ami  night   unto 
night  showt'th  knowledge." 


I. 


Day  unto  day  I  scrub  along, — 

One  of  a  weary,  worrying  throng, 

The  burden  of  whose  speech  and  song — 

A  ciy  for  bread  and  butter  ; 
Night  unto  night  I  vainly  seek 
That  knowledge  of  which  prophets  speak — 
And  find  it  answered  all  too  weak — 

This  cry  I  daily  utter. 


II. 


Day  unto  day  I  build  anew 

Si. me  scheme  to  pull  "your  uncle"  through, 

And  change  his  mood  to  pink  from  blue, 

Tli  us  making  life  seem  brighter ; 
Night  unto  night  I  grasp  my  broom, 
When  "all  to  smash"  has  gone  my  boom, 
And  sweep  the  ruins  from  my  room, — 

A  wiser,  sadder  fighter. 


(35) 


III. 

Day  unto  day  some  heartless  chap, 
Who  rates  my  feelings  not  a  "rap," 
Will  give  a  most  uncalled-for  slap 

Where  I  have  grown  most  tender. 
Night  unto  night  I  lie  awake 
A  most  un-Christian  plan  to  make 
To  duplicate  that  chap's  mistake, 

And  sin  with  greater  splendor. 

IV. 

Day  unto  day  a  "still,  small  voice" 
Will  make  a  fellow's  heart  rejoice, 
By  giving  him  a  half-way  choice 

'Twixt  what  is  good  and  evil. 
Night  unto  night  when  worn  with  tight 
In  dodging  wrong  and  hunting  right, 
Lo  and  behold,  bobs  up  in  sight 

Our  ancient  friend,  the  Devil. 


V. 


Day  unto  day  I  look  around 

And  see  some  tempted  mortal  found 

On  what  is  styled  "forbidden  ground" 

By  those  whose  luck  was  greater. 
Night  unto  night  I  think  up  strong 
This  theory  of  right  and  wrong, 
Thankful  the  deal  does  not  belong 

To  me,  but  the  Creator. 


VI. 

Day  unto  day,  I  can't  tell  why, 
(Perhaps  you  know  as  well  as  I,) 
I  look  to  see  the  clouds  roll  by 

And  clear  up  Life's  horizon. 
Night  unto  night  the  sun  will  set 
(At  least  it  never  failed  as  yet,) 
And  leave  me  in  the  sama  old  fret — 

A  state  of  mental  "pison." 

VII. 

Yes,  speech  is  heard  "day  unto  day," 

Exactly  as  the  Scriptures  say, 

And  loud  the  preachers  preach  and  pray ; 

But,  zealous  Christian  brother — 
Night  unto  night  has  made  us  think 
(So  hard  we  couldn't  sleep  a  wink) 
That  half  the  speech  was  wasted  ink, 

And  fruitless  talk  the  other. 

VIII. 

Day  unto  day,  if  we  are  wise, 
And  look  around  with  kinder  eyes, 
We'll  find  much  less  to  criticise 

In  those  we  see  about  us. 
Night  unto  night  in  seeking  rest, 
I'm  growing  more  and  more  impressed 
That,  even  at  our  very  best, 

The  world  can  do  without  us. 


(37; 


BLIFKINS. 

A  TALE  OF  ORPHANAGE 


Upon  the  window  sill  I  spy 

An  orphan  lorn  and  lone; 
There's  melancholy  in  his  eye, 

And  sadness  in  his  tone. 

Deserted  by  maternal  care, 

And  left  unto  the  fates, 
He  seeks  his  gastronomic  fare, 

From  cold  and  empty  plates. 

What  soothes  poor  Blifkins  in  this  hour 

Of  orphaned  solitude, 
Unless  through  some  kind,  ruling  power 

He  finds  his  hopes  renewed  ? 

The  widow  and  the  orphan  long 
Have  read  of  friends  in  need, 

Such  hopes  to  Blifkins  scarce  belong, 
For  Blifkins  can  not  read. 

"Like  as  a  father  pitieth  child"- 

Such  is  the  way  it's  put, 
Hut  Blifkins'  father  runneth  wild 

With  unparental  foot. 


(38) 


O,  hard  and  harsh  humanity, — 

By  cruel  passions  torn, 
That  heedeth  not  the  orphan's  cry, 

Though  countless  Blifkins  mourn. 

If  thou  couldst  look  that  saddened  phiz 

Of  Blifkins  in  the  face, 
And  view  his  sorrow  as  it  is, 

It  might  enhance  your  grace. 

So  many  hearts  are  tightly  locked, 

And  hid  secure  the  key, 
That  though  a  thousand  Blifkins  knocked, 

They'd  scarce  the  keyhole  see. 

And  I  am  wasting  precious  ink 
For  what  must  come  to  naught, 

While  Blifkins  nothing  does  but  blink, 
In  answer  to  my  thought. 

But  weep  not,  friend,  nor  waste  wild  grief, 

In  passing  round  your  hat, 
This  case  will  scarce  admit  relief, 

For  Blifkins  is  a  cat. 


(39) 


REFLECTIONS  FROM  THANATOPSIS. 


AN   ENDORSEMENT  OF  WM.  CULLEN   BRYANT. 


"The  gay  will  laugh  when  them  art  gone," 

Says  Wm.  Cullen ; 
Prophetic  singer,  "right  you  be ; " 
This  world  will  have  its  jamboree 
When  you  and  I  are  trod  upon 
Beneath  the  Mullein. 

Momus  will  hold  his  festive  court, 

Though  we  are  minus, 
And  merry  hearts  with  jocund  glee 
Will  little  reck  of  you  or  me, 
While  those  who  stay  and  hold  the  fort, 
Not  long  enshrine  us. 

"The  solemn  brood  of  care  plod  on," 

Observes  friend  Bryant ; 
Nature  pursueth,  grave  or  gay, 
The  even  tenor  of  her  way ; 
Tis  man  alone  who  cannot  don 
An  air  defiant. 


(•JO) 


"And  each  one  as  before,  will  chase 

His  favorite  phantom ; " 
Alas !  for  all  thy  lofty  pride, 
Thou  with  conceit  intensified  ; 
Thou  only  struttest  in  thy  place, — 
A  feeble  bantam. 

Inflated  souls  with  pride  immense, 

Hold  the  idea, 

That  when  they  cease  their  mortal  clack, 
The  world  will  go  to  Ballyhack, 
But  whence  they  draw  such  inference, 
Is  not  so  clear. 

In  point  of  fact,  note  the  reverse;  — 

In  all  such  cases, 
Some  other  fellows  will  be  found 
Whose  shoes  will  cover  far  more  ground, 
And  better  men,  instead  of  worse, 
Will  take  their  places. 

An  hour  of  sorrow  and  of  grief 

Attends  our  exit, 

And  healing  Time  slips  in  and  shares 
Its  newer  joys  and  fresher  cares, 
Which  tend  to  give  the  heart  relief 
And  not  perplex  it. 


But  Bryant  seems  to  hold  the  key 

To  the  position — 

"So  live  that  when  thy  summons  comes, 
Go  not  like  slaves,"  tied  by  the  thumbs, 
As  though  the  journey  were  to  be 
Straight  to  perdition. 

But  let  the  record  of  thy  years 

Shine  out  so  brightly, 
That  there  can  linger  no  mistrust 
Of  aught  malignant  or  unjust, 
N  or  shall  the  sad  reproach  of  tears 
Chide  e'er  so  lightly. 

Then  laugh,  ye  gay,  and  dance  and  sing 

Though  years  bring  sorrow  ; 
Let  men  and  women  come  and  go 
And  chase  their  phantoms  to  and  fro ; 
What  matters  it  if  Time  shall  bring 
A  glad  to-morrow  ? 


(42) 


NOT  UNHAPPY. 


I  meet  a  friend  upon  my  daily  walk : 

One  of  the  rare,  uplifted  sort  of  chaps, 

Who  rise  above  the  pitiful  mishaps 
At  which  so  many  of  us  turn  and  balk  : 
And  this  my  constant  greeting  as  we  meet — 

"Friend,  are  you  happy  ?"     With  contented  smile, 

As  he  were  half  an  angel  all  the  while, 
And  needed  only  wings  to  be  complete, 
"I'm  not  unhappy" — thus  he  makes  reply 
With  calm  assurance  that  I  may  not  doubt, 
And  I  am  sent  away  to  wonder  why 

My  friend  should  learn  a  trick  I've  not  found  out. 
•'Xot  quite  unhappy?"     Confident  and  strong, 
This  ever  is  the  burden  of  his  song. 

And  yet  beyond  all  doubt  my  friend  has  learned 
One  of  the  truest  lessons  of  the  hour, — 
That  sweet  contentment  in  its  restful  power 

Is  not  an  acquisition  to  be  spurned. 

We  would  be  happy — idiots  that  we  are, 

Striving,  with  hurrying  feet  and  longing  eyes, 
For  glimpses  of  that  weak  fool's  Paradise, 

Which  tells  of  pleasure  with  no  shade  of  care. 

Be  not  unhappy,  and  thy  lot  is  cast 

For  all  the  joy  that  falleth  to  thy  share, 

Nor  grief  nor  trouble,  howe'er  deep  or  vast, 

Shall  bring  more  burdens  than  thy  soul  can  bear. 

Yes,  friend,  you're  doubtless  right ;  yet,  none  the  less, 

Hut  few  of  us  attain  to  happiness. 


ACROSTICAL. 


C  ould  all  the  friendships  of  our  life  on  earth, 
H  ave  the  rare  value  of  your  honest  worth, 
A  iming  to  act  with  conscience  ever  clear, 
H  ejecting  all  that  makes  life  insincere, 
L  avish  in  every  generous  deed  and  thought, 
E  steeming  only  acts  where  good  is  wrought, 
S  o  rich  in  all  the  traits  to  virtue  kin, 

E  nnobling  through  their  power  to  charm  and  win  ; 
I)  earer  such  friendships  than  the  flimsy  ties, 
W  hich  in  their  way,  speak  but  so  many  lies, 
A  nd  when  ill-fortune  threatens  to  control, 
II  eveal  their  wretched  poverty  of  soul. 
D  oubtful  of  such,  we,  hoping  to  be  just, 

P  rize  more  the  blessing  of  a  generous  trust, 
R  ich  in  its  honest  thought  and  simple  ways 
A  nd  all  unconscious  of  deserving  praise. — 
T  his  is  the  gift  in  eveiy  age  and  place 
T  hat  brings  the  greatest  blessing  to  the  race. 


MY  NEIGHBOR  AND  I. 


I  have  a  neighbor  prone  to  fret 
And  fall  into  a  needless  sweat, 
Belittling  his  life  and  soul, 
Because  of  things  he  can't  control. 
I,  by  good  luck,  was  early  taught 
That  fretting  mostly  came  to  naught, 
Or,  if  some  life  it  introduced, 
Bred  curses  that  came  home  to  roost. 

My  neighbor  has  been  blessed  in  store ; 
Blessed,  did  I  say '!     Nay,  cursed  the  more, 
Since  all  his  stores  of  worldly  pelf 
Have  brought  no  blessing  to  himself. 
Much  happier  I  in  mild  content, 
With  but  the  little  Fate  has  sent, 
And  deem  myself  not  much  the  worse 
Because  I  hold  an  empty  purse. 

My  neighbor  grumbles  at  the  rain 
Because  it  breeds  rheumatic  pain  ; 
He  also  frowns  on  sunny  days 
And  growls  at  Phoebus'  scorching  rays. 


(-55) 


I  see  no  reason  to  complain 
Either  of  sunshine  or  of  rain, 
And  am  convinced  beyond  a  doubt 
That  neither  should  be  counted  out. 

My  neighbor  is  a  haughty  man, 
I 'milt  on  a  high  and  mighty  plan, 
Who  summons  men  with  beck  and  nod 
As  if  he  were  a  demi-god. 
I  take  no  stock  in  pride  of  caste, 
Which  surely  comes  to  grief  at  last, 
And  entertain  my  private  whim 
That  parti- walls  of  such  are  slim. 

My  neighbor  pays  but  little  heed 

To  suffering  mortals  in  their  need  ; 

His  dollars  have  that  curious  chink 

Which  stops  his  power  to  hear  or  think. 

I  find  I  get  a  dividend 

In  playing  sympathetic  friend, 

And  half  the  fun  of  life  is  lost, 

If  offered  to  us  free  of  cost. 

And  now  perhaps  I've  made  you  see 
The  difference  'twixt  Mm  and  me, 
He  could  not  be  me  if  he  would ; 
I  would  not  be  him  if  I  could. 
It  may  be  best  that  we  should  move 
Each  in  his  individual  groove, 
Yet  there's  a  difference  I  opine, 
Between  my  neighbor's  lot  and  mine. 


SPECULATION  IN  FUTURES. 


Sooner  or  later  Life's  weak  flickering  flame 

Grows  dim  and  ceases  ; 
Sooner  or  later  this  poor  human  frame 

Will  go  to  pieces. 

Sooner  or  later  shall  we  feel  the  touch 

Of  frosty  fingers ; 
Sooner  or  later  shall  we  know  how  much 

Our  memory  lingers. 

Sooner  or  late  our  mourners  will  begin 

Their  doubtful  grievings ; 
Sooner  or  late  will  creditors  step  in 

And  take  the  leavings. 

Sooner  or  late  will  gossip  have  its  fun 

Bred  from  the  scandal 
That,  sure  as  direst  fate  pours  out  when  one 

Goes  off  the  handle. 

Sooner  or  later  we  must  all  endure 

Posthumous  chinning: — 
Those  compliments  that  come  too  late  to  cure 

Us  of  our  sinning. 

"A  small-souled  chap  he  was," — some  one  will  say, 

"Cut  for  a  low  fit ;" 
"The  probabilities  are  strong  to-day 

He's  safe  in  Tophet." 


(47) 


Another,  kind  of  heart,  will  criticise 

Us  less  severely, 
Looking  at  what  were  sins  in  other  eyes, 

As  errors  merely. 

Ah !  me,  what  will  it  matter  to  us  then— 

The  world's  opinion  ? 
We'll  fly  our  banners  and  our  fortunes  in 

A  new  dominion. 

But  when  that  time  shall  come  to  you  and  me, 

Sooner  or  later, 
Thank  Heaven,  no  Mrs.  Grundy  then  will  be 

Our  arbitrator. 

And  as  the  "ins"  and  "outa"  are  figured  up, 

And  told  our  story, 
Who  knows  but  even  we  may  have  a  sup 

And  taste  of  glory  ? 

And  though  we  may  unwisely  have  betrayed 

Erratic  fancies, 
Let's  hope  that  some  allowance  may  be  made 

For  circumstances. 

Let's  hope,  that  though  our  judge  we've  sorely  tried, 

Some  little  item 
May  find  a  place  upon  our  credit  side 

And  quite  delight  him. 

Sooner  or  later  will  the  business  end, 

The  plot  unravel ; 
Sooner  or  later,  my  respected  friend, 

We'll  have  to  travel. 


(48) 


SALAD  FOR  THE  CONCEITED. 


Of  all  conceits  that  haunt  a  man 

And  hedge  themselves  about  him, 
There  never  was  one  since  Time  began, 
That  seemed  so  poor  and  thin  to  scan, 
As  the  thought  that  the  world  was  built  on  a  plan, 

That  it  couldn't  get  on  without  him. 

A  conceit  as  old  as  the  world  is  this, 

And  quite  correct  in  Adam, 
For  it  wouldn't  be  strange  that  Eve  might  miss 
The  only  man  who  could  give  the  kiss 
Which  settled  the  fact  of  connubial  bliss 

Between  himself  and  madam. 

But  times  have  changed,  we  are  forced  to  believe, 

And  Adams  are  getting  more  plenty ; 
And  the  chances  to-day  that  a  modern  Eve 
Would  go  far  out  of  her  way  to  grieve, 
Should  her  lord  and  master  take  his  leave, 
Would  scarcely  be  one  in  twenty. 

And  though  you  may  deem  the  reasons  rife, 

For  keeping  in  recollection, 
'Tis  not  alone  the  comforted  wife 
Wliu  drives  your  memory  out  of  her  life, 
But  oblivion's  many-bladed  knife 

Will  cut  in  every  direction. 


(-W) 


And,  friend,  should  you  entertain  a  whim 
That  your  loss  the  world  might  cripple, 
We  grieve  your  pride  of  heart  to  dim, 
But  the  place  you  fill  is  so  very  slim, 
You  might  go  under  and  cease  to  swim, 
Without  creating  a  ripple. 

Now  out  of  this  a  '-conundrum"  springs — 

Wherefore  this  fuss  and  labor, 
This  working  so  hard  for  material  things, 
That  are  more  than  likely  to  take  on  wings, 
When  possession  no  more  happiness  brings 

To  you  than  your  poorer  neighbor? 

We  give  it  up  and  pass  it  along, 

As  have  they  who  lived  before  us ; 

We  try,  as  did  they,  to  come  out  strong, 

But  things  sometimes  go  fearfully  wrong, 

And  we  all  of  us  sing  the  same  old  song 

With  but  little  change  in  the  chorus. 

May  not  this  folly  of  human  conceit 

Be  a  part  of  the  plan  eternal — 
That  a  man  should  struggle  with  weaiy  feet, 
In  weak  endeavors  to  win  a  heat 
Of  a  race  which  shall  never  be  complete, 

Till  we  reach  the  goal  supernal? 

Then  sound  your  trumpet  and  blow  your  horn 

And  make  the  most  of  your  merits  ; 
There's  many  a  man  who  contrives  to  adorn 
A  position  for  which  he  never  was  born, 
And  the  world  has  nothing  for  him  but  scorn, 
Who's  content  with  what  he  inherits. 


(50) 


REVIEW  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOLBOYS. 


"So  these  were  boys ;" — these  with  the  care-worn  look 

Of  two-score  years  or  more  upon  their  brow ; 

Were  these  grim  fellows  we  are  greeting  now, 
The  old-time  urchins  of  the  slate  and  book  ? 
He  with  the  sober  phiz  and  trim  cravat — 

Whose  face  scarce  ever  breaks  into  a  smile  ; 
Was  this  the  youth  who  donned  the  old  straw  hat 

And  barefoot  trudged  for  many  a  weary  mile;* 

And  this  strong  burly  chap  of  fourteen  stone, 
Who  romped  in  boyish  sport  upon  the  Green  ; 
In  those  old  days  didst  ever  think,  I  ween, 

That  thine  would  be  the  saddest  task  of  all, — 

To  shroud  and  decorate  the  funeral  pall 

Of  friends  and  schoolmates  thou  so  well  hast  known  ? 

And  one  whose  name  appeared  upon  the  list, 

Who  wandered  from  us  at  an  early  day; — 
I  wonder  if  the  little  boy  we  missed, 

Has  laid  his  youthful  looks  and  pranks  away ; 
I  think  of  him  with  fresh  and  ruddy  cheek — 

This  truant  bee  from  our  scholastic  hive, 
I  have  in  mind  a  child  with  bearing  meek, 

And  not  the  bearded  man  of  forty'-h've. 


(51) 


And  thou,  whose  genial  look  and  pleasant  eye 
Foreshadowed  even  in  that  youthful  time, 
The  proud  fulfilment  of  thy  manhood's  prime  ; 
Did'st  ever  once  a  thought  possess  thy  brain, 
That  thou  wouldst  play  the  soldier  o'er  again 
With  deadly  arms  and  earnest  battle  cry  V 
Didst  ever  think  that  on  some  hard-fought  field, 
Where  either  combatant  disdained  to  yield, 
That  thou  wouldst  bear  away  the  cruel  scar 
That  marks  the  terrors  of  "grim-visaged  war"  '1 
Ah !  dear  old  comrades,  we  but  little  thought 
The  mimic  battles  that  we  daily  fought, 
Were  embryotic  forms  of  real  strife, 
To  paint  the  conflicts  of  a  struggling  life. 
How  little  did  our  boyish  reasoning  mark 

The  ebb  and  flow  of  all  those  troub'lous  tides, 
Whose  narrow  channels  are  but  treacherous  guides 
Upon  the  stream  where  human  lives  embark : 
And  yet  the  boy  is  father  to  the  man  ; 

And  did  we  know  it,  each  of  us  might  trace 
Even  in  childhood,  the  imperfect  plan 

That  in  the  years  must  stare  us  in  the  face. 
Alas !  we  learn  the  lesson  all  too  late 
To  shape  for  wisest  ends  our  earthly  fate. 
One  thing  alone  is  taught  us  hard  and  fast — 
We  are  but  boys,  and  shall  be  to  the  last. 


(52) 


A  SPASM  OF  CHARITY. 


A  friendless  lad  stood  on  the  street, 
As  poor  a  boy  as  you  could  meet, 
Shrunken  in  form  and  bare  of  feet, 
Arrayed  in  garb  quite  incomplete, 
And  looking  anything  but  neat. 

One  of  the  poorest  of  God's  poor  :— 
A  little  waif  on  Life's  bleak  moor, 
Begging  his  bread  from  door  to  door  ; 
Through  all  his  years  of  nothing  sure 
Except  to  suffer  and  endure. 

Xow  this  poor  boy  so  meanly  clad 
Would  not  have  seemed  to  be  a  lad 
To  wake  one's  interest,  good  or  bad, 
And  yet  a  thought  akin  to  sad, 
Aroused  what  sympathy  I  had. 

A  thought  like  this  ran  through  my  mind- 
Suppose  the  Fates  had  been  inclined 
To  fix  my  lot  in  human  kind 
Like  this  poor  lad's,  so  dark  and  blind, 
That  I  must  ever  grope  behind. 

i  4  (53) 


And  yet  it's  but  a  game  of  chance, 
Whether  in  Life  we  weep  or  dance, 
So  much  may  some  light  circumstance, 
(It  may  be  but  a  friendly  glance,) 
Our  earthly  happiness  enhance. 

And  feeling  thus  I  did  not  dare 
To  pass  the  boy  who  lingered  there 
With  look  forlorn  and  form  half  bare, 
Without  a  small  attempt  to  share 
The  little  that  I  had  to  spare. 

Ye  mortals  of  a  selfish  clan, 

Rest  easy  if  you  easy  can, 

But  surely  it  was  Heaven's  plan 

That  charity  should  be  the  span 

To  bridge  'twixt  man  and  fellow-man. 


154) 


NOT  so  OLD  AS  HE  THINKS. 


Grim  shades  of  Methuselah,  dead  and  grown  cold, 
Who  might  this  chap  be  that  assumes  we  are  old? 
Perhaps  the  old  croaker  would  speak  for  himself, 
But  we're  not  prepared  to  be  laid  on  the  shelf. 

Would  he  have  you  suppose  we  are  knocked  out  of  time  ? 
Why  bless  his  dear  soul  we  are  just  in  our  prime, 
And  we  answer  the  roll-call  at  morn,  noon  and  eve, 
With  a  promptness  that  makes  our  dear  landlady  grieve. 

Does  the  fellow  imagine  he's  telling  the  truth 
When  he  says  we  have  outlived  the  days  of  our  youth? 
Can't  he  learn  it — or  must  he  forever  be  told — 
"There's  a  class  of  good  people  that  never  grow  old  ?" 

Does  he  think  it  because  we  can't  dance  like  a  top, 

Or  wear  the  nonsensical  airs  of  a  fop? 

Does  he  reckon  a  touch  of  incipient  gout 

As  a  sign  that  your  uncle  is  nearly  played  out? 

Does  he  get  his  queer  notions  concerning  our  years 
From  the  baldness  of  occiput  over  the  ears, 
When  it  long  since  was  settled  beyond  any  doubt, 
That  a  surplus  of  brainage  must  make  its  way  out? 


(55) 


Because  he  has  found  in  our  phiz  a  new  crease, 
Does  he  think  we've  let  up  on  Mortality's  lease? 
Can't  he  learn  that  a  wrinkle  may  be  but  a  sign 
Of  a  vein  in  a  large  intellectual  mine? 

Can't  the  blunderbuss  see  that  a  few  silvered  hairs 
Mark  the  progress  less  often  of  years  than  of  cares, 
While  a  man  may  be  many  removes  from  the  dead 
And  yet  bloom  like  a  snowlall  all  over  his  head? 

But,  perhaps  after  all,  it  may  chance  that  he's  right, 
F"or  Time  steals  a  march  like  a  thief  in  the  night, 
And  we  find  the  boy  soldier  in  youthfulness  fair, 
Enrolled  as  a  veteran  e'er  he's  aware. 

Ah !  the  days  of  our  youth  all  too  soon  slip  away, 
And  Life  is  so  brief  to  the  happy  and  gay, 
That  it  startles  our  senses  to  hear  the  grim  call 
That  sooner  or  later  must  come  to  us  all. 

But  we  build  up  our  lives  more  on  hopes  than  on  fears, 
While  the  heart  may  keep  young  in  the  fullness  of  years 
So  the  friends  who  best  know  us  need  not  to  be  told 
Why  we  see  no  good  reason  for  feeling  so  old. 


(5fi) 


'SKEESICK.' 


A  DOMESTIC  IDYL. 


We  carol  forth  our  rhythmic  measures 
In  adulation  of  the  treasures 

That  make  our  earthly  life  a  blessing ; — 
Our  household  gods ;  our  worldly  pelf ; 
Our— last,  but  not  the  least — ourself ; 

Each  some  poetic  worth  possessing. 

"Our  household  gods,"  not  always  human, 
Assuming  shape  of  man  or  woman, 

Are  those  whose  lives  have  circled  round  us ; 
But  quite  unlike  in  form  or  feature, 
Perhaps  a  dumb  and  soulless  creature 

With  almost  human  ties  has  bound  us. 

And,  as  my  evening  chair  I  sit  in 
And  gaze  upon  our  last  year's  kitten 

Now  grown  to  be  a  staid  grimalkin, 
Whose  muse  (mews)  like  mine,  I  sadly  fear, 
Shall  grow  more  torturing  to  the  ear 

As  more  and  more  it  fills  the  welkin. 


(57) 


My  thoughts  are  kindling  to  a  fancy, 
r\  hat  I  would,  by  some  necromancy, 

Just  play  at  pussy  in  the  corner, 
And  look  on  life  as  fun  and  frolic, 
Untainted  with  the  melancholic 

That  placards  every  man  a  mourner. 

I  wonder  does  his  dreamy  winking — 
That  curious  mode  of  feline  blinking, 

Betoken  an  inborn  contentment, 
Or  whether  after  human  fashions, 
He  feels  those  despicable  passions 

That  we  call  hatred  and  resentment. 

But  signs  of  back  and  tail  uprising, 
Would  indicate  it  not  surprising 

If  he  his  name  had  heard  us  mention, 
Though  by  wrhat  law  of  metaphysics, 
A  cat  should  bear  the  name  of  Skeesicks, 

Is  quite  beyond  my  comprehension. 

Ah !  kit  that  was,  old  cat  that  now  is, 
The  record  of  your  martial  prowess 

Disturbs  us  in  our  midnight  slumbers, 
And  trumpet-tongued,  nocturnal  yelling, 
Your  feats  of  arms,  (and  claws)  are  telling, 

More  eloquent  than  poet's  numbers. 

And  after  all  it  little  matters — 

The  form  of  life  that  fortune  scatters, — 

The  class  or  order,  name  or  station, 
A  cat  may  look  upon  his  highness ;" 
The  king  shall  match  the  cat  for  slyness, 
Both  parts  of  one  complete  creation. 


MAY,  1882. 

THE  IDEAL— WRITTEN   MAY  1st. 

A  welcome  to  the  gladsome  month  of  May, 

With  sunny  smiles  and  sweetly  fragrant  flowers, 
As  once  adorned  the  legendary  bowers 
In  fairy  pictures  of  our  childhood's  day. 
Welcome,  the  glories  of  this  queen  of  Spring, 
Whose  sights  and  sounds  give  pledges,  heralding 
Throughout  her  realms,  a  more  than  regal  reign 
Of  tropic  splendor  crowned  with  golden  gain. 
Last  of  the  vernal  months,  we  love  her  best ; 

Upon  the  threshold  of  a  winter  past, 
She  shuts  the  door  and  promises  sweet  rest 

From  angry  storm  and  from  the  chilling  blast. 
The  smiles  upon  her  face  are  wondrous  fair, 
And  Heaven's  own  incense  floats  upon  the  air. 

THE  REAL— WRITTEN  MAY  3lit. 

A  plague  upon  the  wretched  month  of  May, 

With  doleful  frowns  and  drizzling,  wilting  showers 

As  once  beguiled  traditionary  hours 
In  Bible  stories  of  old  Noah's  day; 
Banish  the  mem'ries  of  this  blight  of  Spring, 
Whose  sights  and  sounds  gave  pledges,  heralding 
Throughout  her  realms,  a  more  than  needful  rain 
Of  fearful  wetness  and  of  muddy  pain. 
Last  of  the  vernal  months,  she's  done  her  best ; 

Upon  the  threshold  of  a  winter  past 
She  holds  the  door  ajar,  and  for  the  rest, 

See  "Weather  Probs,"  with  even-  day  o'ercast. 
The  smiles  upon  her  face  are  all  askew, 
And  Heaven's  own  incense  but  a  heavy  dew. 

(59) 


SCHOOL  DAY  MEMORIES. 

A  RESPONSE. 


Ah !  no,  my  friend,  you  would  not  know 

That  lakeside  wood  to-day ; 
The  joys  and  charms  of  long  ago 

Are  spirited  away. 

The  demon  of  a  restless  change 

Has  exercised  its  spell 
And  shadowed  magic-like  and  strange, 

The  haunts  you  loved  so  well. 

No  longer  in  a  little  lane 

Do  sun  and  shadow  meet; 
The  rustic  path  across  the  plain 

Is  now  a  spacious  street. 

The  fragrance  of  the  summer  air 

Is  banished  from  the  spot ; 
Those  melodies  so  sweet  and  rare, 

To-day,  alas,  are  not. 

The  music  of  the  gentle  brook, 

The  song  of  birds  and  bees, 
The  rustic  chair  in  cosy  nook, 

The  murm'ring  of  the  breefce, 


(60) 


These  all  are  pleasures  of  a  past 

That  will  not  reappear; — 
Phantoms  of  joys  that  could  not  last 

Beyond  our  childhood's  year. 

And  he  whose  whisper  brought  a  blush 

Into  a  cheek  that  day, 
Is  lying  in  the  churchyard  hush 

Beneath  a  slab  of  gray. 

Our  school-days  live  but  as  a  dream 

Of  idle  play  and  sport, 
And  Youth  as  a  poetic  theme 

With  Fancy  holding  court. 

Oh !  no,  my  friend,  'tis  not  the  same ; 

A  Force  of  mighty  power 
Is  working,  with  mysterious  aim, 

A  change  with  every  hour. 

Be  this  the  joy  that  ever  springs 
From  memory's  smiles  or  tears ; — 

They  lead  to  higher,  better  things 
Through  all  the  coming  years. 


(61) 


POLO. 

AS  SEEN  BY  THE  LOCAL  PHILOSOPHER. 


We'd  like  first-rate,  if  we  had  time, 
Old  Mount  Parnassus'  heights  to  climb, 
And  wrestle  at  a  little  rhyme 
On  what  we  saw  at  Polo. 

The  game  that  rolls  on  every  tongue, 
Of  which  the  ancients  never  sung,— 
A  game  of  "go  it  while  you're  young,"- 
This  wondrous  game  of  Polo. 

Where  wisest  heads  and  craziest  cranks 
Alike  combine  to  swell  the  ranks 
Who  crowd  to  watch  the  sportive  pranks 
That  animate  the  Polo. 

Where  maidens  fair  and  stately  dame 
Are  fascinated  with  the  game, 
And  even  cripples,  halt  and  lame 
Will  hobble  to  the  Polo. 

Where,  sandwiched  in  with  boys  and  men, 
Are  patriarchs — "fourscore  and  ten," 
And  infants  born — we  won't  say  when  ; 
But  old  enough  for  Polo. 


(62) 


And  chaps  were  there  in  motley  dress. 
With  half  a  garment  on — or  less, 
Like  human  signals  of  distress, 
Set  for  a  game  of  Polo. 

A  game  of  doubtful  "outs"  and  "ins," 
Where  muscle  more  than  science  wins, 
And  broken  heads  and  blackened  shins 
Are  trophies  of  the  Polo. 

And  thus  I  wondered  as  I  gazed, — 
Why  all  this  rumpus  should  be  raised, 
And  half  the  city  should  be  crazed 
About  a  game  of  Polo. 

And  men  and  women  nightly  flock 
And  wait  from  seven  till  ten  o'clock 
To  sac  a  lot  of  fellows  knock 
A  ball  about  at  Polo. 

Yet,  criticise  it  as  you  will, 
The  world  will  ride  its  hobbies  still ; 
And  so,  if  Polo  fills  the  bill, 
Why  take  it  out  in  Polo. 


(63) 


MY  RHYMES 

Are  but  the  children  of  an  idle  hour  ; 
Weak  intellectual  buds,  forced  into  flower  ; 
Thought-bubbles,  surface-rising,  that  contain 
The  lighter  products  of  a  busy  brain. 
Born  of  a  sudden  whim  or  passing  thought, 
With  more  of  art  than  inspiration  fraught, 
I  tire  of  constant  toil  and  care  at  times 
And  find  companionship  in  simple  rhymes. 
As  a  rude  player  wandering  o'er  the  keys, 
Can  scarce  expect  a  cultured  ear  to  please, 
Yet  by  some  chance  may  toiich  upon  a  strain 
That  echoes  with  a  glad  and  sweet  refrain, 
So  I,  though  striving  simply  to  rehearse 
For  self-enjoyment,  my  too  feeble  verse, 
Have,  all  unconscious,  chanted  many  a  tone 
That  touched  a  heart  responsive  to  my  own, 
Awakening  in  another's  weary  lot, 
Some  grain  of  comfort  he  had  nigh  forgot, 
And  homeward  circling  to  its  native  air, 
Breathed  a  new  friendship  ere  I  was  aware  : 
And  though  we  never  clasped  each  others  hands, 
But  dwell  as  denizens  of  foreign  lands, 
Yet  through  a  strangely  kind,  benignant  law, 
It  chances  that  a  face  I  never  saw, 


(64) 


In  warmest  sympathy  and  love  may  shine, 
Beaming  with  hope  at  some  stray  thought  of  mine. 

And  so  I  build  and  launch  the  little  boat 
That  sets  a  measure  of  my  song  afloat, 
And  watch  the  voyage  with  a  quiet  sport, 
Contented  though  it  never  reach  a  port. 
It  was  my  venture ;  though  to  other  eyes 
The  cargo  might  seem  neither  rich  nor  wise ; 
\Vhat  matters  it  though  all  the  world  condemn  ? 
To  me  each  one  contained  some  little  gem ; 
I  know  they  are  not  diamonds ;  but  the  poor 
Can  hardly  hope  to  own  a  Koh-i-nor. 
The  merest  pennies  in  the  beggar's  clutch 
Outweigh  the  guinea  in  the  rich  man's  touch : 
Call  mine  the  beggars  pennies  if  you  will ; 
What  care  I,  if  my  humble  need  they  fill? 
Coined  from  the  heart,  no  spurious  sound  they  ring, 
Like  the  charmed  voices  with  which  sirens  sing. 
More  of  God's  offspring  feed  on  crumbs  than  cake, 
And  lightest  wine  the  keenest  thirst  may  slake; 
Then  who  shall  say  but  that  my  halting  line 
May  reach  and  cheer  another  heart  than  mine, 
While  the  poor  nonsense  of  a  lighter  mood 
May  have  its  helpful  influence  for  good, 
Teaching  a  lesson  in  its  weak,  crude  way, 
That  otherwise  I  had  no  power  to  say. 
May  not  my  feeble  plea  in  part  excuse 
The  vagaries  that  haunt  my  wandering  muse, 
And  kindly  hearts  fresh  confidence  shall  bring 
To  lift  the  measure  of  the  songs  I  sing. 


(65) 


SERMONETTES. 


1 — THE  GOOD  SAMARITAN. 

2 — THE  PARSON'S  STORY. 

3 — MORE  BLESSED  TO  GIVE  THAN  TO  RECEIVE. 

4 — AN  OLD  STORY  REVISED. 

5 — DONE  ON  BOTH  SIDES. 

6 — A  QUERY. 

7 — GOOSE  EGG  HATCHED  OUT. 


(66) 


THE  GOOD  SAMARITAN. 


There's  an  old  allegorical, 

Biblo-historical 
Tale,  (a  conundrum  it  proved  in  its  time,) 

Called  "Who  is  my  neighbor '?" 

And  if  not  too  much  labor, 
Suppose  we  rehearse  it  and  set  it  to  rhyme. 

A  Jerusalem-ite  had  started  down 

To  visit  his  uncle  in  Jericho  town  ; 

And  in  stating  the  facts  the  writer  grieves 

To  say  that  the  traveler  fell  among  thieves, 

Who  got  in  their  work  in  that  damaging  way 

So  characteristic  of  thieves  to  this  day ; 

For  not  content  with  rifling  his  purse, 

(Which  to  fellows  like  us,  there  could  nothing  be  worse,) 

They  showed  him  no  mercy 

But  quite  "vice-versa," 

They  cut  up  and  "raised  most  particular  Ned," 
By  stripping  and  leaving  the  fellow  half  dead. 

Now  the  first  individual  passing  that  way, 
Was  a  man  of  devout  ministerial  way, 


Who  prayed  every  hour  with  an  unctuous  zest. 

That  the  Lord  would  be  kind  to  the  sick  and  oppressed, 

And  of  course  you  would  think, 

As  quick  as  a  wink, 
That  this  virtuous  man  would  be  victuals  and  drink, 

But  we're  sorry  to  state 

That  that  hook  did'nt  bait, 
And  he  left  the  poor  Jew  all  alone  to  his  fate ; 

For  the  narrative  goes 

That  he  followed  his  nose 
And  closed  his  eyes  to  the  victim's  woes. 

Now  who  is  this  fellow  that  struts  in  the  van  ? 
Ah !  here  is  your  thorough-bred,  gospel-fed  man, 
Devoted  to  serving  the  Lord  from  his  birth, 
And  surely  he'll  work  for  all  that  he's  worth. 

Hut  the  Levite  fought  shy 

And  passed  stealthily  by, 

While  the  chap  by  the  wayside  gave  vent  to  a  sigh 
That  ought  to  have  stirred  up  the  angels  on  high, 
And  the  man  in  the  moon  which  had  lately  arisen, 
Was  led  to  inquire  from  his  lunary  prison 

If  that  was  a  test 

Of  a  saint's  very  best, 
In  the  care  that  they  take  of  the  weak  and  oppressed? 

Hut  what  piratical  craft  comes  here 
On  a  beast  with  exceeding  length  of  ear, 
Whose  rider  looked  more  like  a  buccaneer 
Than  a  man  who  serves  his  Ciod  in  fear? 

No  Levite  or  priest, 

To  say  the  least, 
Hut  a  man  with  a  heart  for  even  a  beast, 


Though  he  came  of  a  tribe  that  the  lordly  Jew 
Had  always  snubbed  without  ado. 
Yet  he  certainly  took  in  a  Christian  view, 
For  he  clothed  the  fellow  from  hat  to  shoe, 
And  he  mended  his  bones  and  patched  his  mug, 
And  lifted  him  on  to  the  long-eared  plug, 
And  dropped  him  in  at  the  next  hotel, 
With  orders  to  stop  until  sound  and  well, 
And  what  to  us  is  more  wonderful  still, 
He  left  the  money  to  foot  the  bill. 

Now  please  don't  say  my  story  is  thin, 
And  you  don't  see  where  the  point  comes  in, 

For  there's  surely  a  hint 

Of  a  lesson  in't, 

That  a  fellow  might  see  with  half  a  squint, 
And  this  is  the  hint — that  I  and  you 
Might  preach  and  pray  till  all  was  blue, 
And  yet  if  we  didn't  wake  up  and  do, 
We  never  should  get  our  ticket  through. 
A  hint — and  here  our  joy  comes  in, — 
That  even  the  so-called  child  of  sin 
May  plod  along  through  thick  and  thin, 
Without  so  much  as  a  hope  to  win, 

Yet  find  his  place 

At  the  end  of  the  race, 
Mapped  out  in  a  most  desirable  space, 

While  those  who  mix 

In  pious  tricks 

May  possibly  get  into  such  a  fix, 
That,  be  they  ever  so  much  devout, 
They'll  find  themselves  clean  counted  out. 

i  5  (69) 


There's  no  end  to  the  hints  that  one  may  read 
In  the  Good  Samaritan's  kindly  deed, 

But,  strange  to  say, 

The  church  of  to-day 
Has  grown  so  sadly  out  of  joint, 
It  almost  fails  to  see  the  point, 
And  many  a  heretic,  "dyed  in  the  wool," 
Can  give  its  religion  an  awful  pull. 

Perhaps  my  rhyme  may  meet  the  eye 
Of  some  who've  laid  their  Bible  by, 

Because,  forsooth, 

The  real  truth 
Has  been  garbled  in  form  so  very  uncouth ; 

Yet,  my  doubting  friend, 

It  is  safe  to  depend 
That  justice  will  certainly  come  in  the  end, 

And  justice,  you  know, 

Is  giving  a  show 
To  a  man  as  far  as  his  merits  may  go ; 

And  as  none  are  all  pure, 

So  none  are  quite  sure 
That  religion  will  work  them  a  permanent  cure; 

And  as  none  are  all  evil, 

It  may  be  the  devil 

Will  eventually  find  himself  off  of  his  level, 
While  "my  neighbor,"  to  use  a  plain  figure  of  speech, 
May  be  sinner  or  saint,  or  a  little  of  each. 


(70) 


THE  PARSON'S  STORY. 


Good  Parson  II.  had  a  happy  way 
Of  clinching  whatever  he  had  to  say, 

With  a  story  or  fable, 

PYom  which  one  was  able 

To  better  determine 

The  point  of  his  sermon  ; 

And  one  Sunday  morning  he  dwelt  on  the  beauty 
Of  making  a  practical  business  of  duty ; 
And  he  hammered  it  home  and  he  clinched  the  last  nail, 
By  relating  this  simple  illustrative  tale. 

One  Mr.  Blank,  (he  gave  no  name, 

But  the  moral  can  be  deduced  the  same,) 

Was  one  of  a  numerous  lot  of  chaps 

Who  are  fond  of  their  Sunday  morning  naps. 

Six  days  he  labored  "like  all  possessed," 

And  often  quite  into  the  day  of  rest, 

So  when  Sunday  came 

With  its  peaceful  claim, 
He  made  a  late  nap  a  special  aim, 
Expecting  of  course  that  the  neighboring  chime 
Would  bring  him  to  life  by  service  time. 


(71) 


But  nature  is  fickle  at  times,  you  know, 

And  our  best  laid  schemes  may  prove  "no  go," 

And  Blank,  poor  fellow, 

Stuck  fast  to  his  pillow, 
Regardless  of  future  weal  or  woe, 
And  when  he  awakened,  it  chanced  his  fate 
To  be,  as  he  put  it,  "confoundedly  late." 
But  Blank  was  quite  too  much  of  a  saint 
To  yield  the  case  in  despair  or  complaint, 
So  he  hurriedly  rigged  his  person  out 
In  the  Sabbath  garb  so  prim  and  devout — 
The  long-tailed  coat  and  stove-pipe  hat, 
The  choker  collar  and  white  cravat, 

And  the  various  cues 

Which  some  woiild  use 

To  denote  they  are  standing  in  saintly  shoes, 
But  which  practical  men  will  rather  choose 
To  interpret  a  sort  of  pious  ruse 
That  is  much  less  apt  to  deceive  than  amuse, 
And  he  started  off  for  the  neighboring  church 
Determined  not  quite  to  be  left  in  the  lurch. 

But  Heaven  defend 

Our  tardy  friend, 

For  with  all  the  speed  that  his  will  could  lend, 
He  only  succeeded  in  reaching  the  place, 
To  meet  the  worshippers  face  to  face ; 
And  making  up  to  the  nearest  one, 
Said  he — "My  friend,  is  the  service  done?" 
"Oh!  no,"  said  the  friend  with  a  Christian  glow, 
"It  never  will  all  be  done,  you  know ; 


(72) 


The  service  has  only  been  read  and  sung 
With  a  little  send-off  by  the  preacher's  tongue. 

It's  an  easy  thing 

To  preach  and  sing 

And  aim  your  shots  at  the  bird  on  the  wing, 
But  as  for  the  business  being  rfeme, 
Why,  friend,  it  has  only  just  begun.'''' 

You  see  the  point  the  parson  made — 
That  sermons  preached  and  prayers  prayed ; 
That  anthems  sung  with  musical  quirks 
And  other  so-called  devotional  works  ; — 
That  serving  the  Master  alone  by  these  ; 
Is  simply  a  fraud  or  a  farce,  as  you  please, 
And  one  might  be  pardoned,  the  parson  thinks, 
For  taking  his  forty  morning  winks, 
And  even  neglecting  the  Sunday  talk, 
If  he  served  the  Lord  in  his  daily  walk. 

The  moral  seems  plain, 

Though  it  may  not  obtain 
A  hold  on  the  Pharisaically  vain, 

But  we  venture  to  say 

That  the  world  some  day 
Will  hold,  as  a  final  conclusion,  at  length, 
That  prayer,  minus  work,  is  a  waste  of  strength. 


(73) 


'MORE  BLESSED  TO  GIVE  THAN  TO 
RECEIVE." 


A  solid  truth ;  the  very  word  of  God  ; 
Divinely  edifying  ;  grandly  broad, 

And  suited  to  the  use  of  any  creed, 
And  he  who  finds  no  better  use  for  pelf 
Than  hedging  in  bis  egotistic  self, 

Must  in  his  soul  be  very  poor  indeed. 

No  figure  this  of  vain  bombastic  speech 
Set  for  your  pedant  clergyman  to  preach, 

That  he  may  beat  the  air  with  empty  sound ; 
No  blatant,  oratorio  platitude, 
So  easy  aired,  but  seldom  understood, 

With  which  your  glowing  texts  so  much  abound, 

But  earnest,  living  truth  ;  a  world  of  bliss 

Can  come  to  those  who  make  their  Heaven  of  this, 

Ignoring  theologic  time  and  space, 
And  never  cup  was  pressed  to  thirsty  lip 
That  he  who  gave  it  did  not  richly  sip 

A  sweeter  draught  of  sweetest  Christian  grace. 

And  though  one  never  kneels  at  other  shrine, 
Or  worships  forms  so  oft  mis-called  divine, 

Yet  carries  comfort  to  a  sorrowing  heart ; 
To  him  no  less  is  due  a  just  reward 
Than  if  he  daily  called  upon  the  Lord 

With  poor  pretence  to  act  the  better  part. 


(74) 


AN  OLD  STORY  REVISED. 


A  worthy  deacon,  zealously  inspired 

To  serve  his  Master  on  the  doubtful  plan 
That  formal  homage  was  the  need  required, 
Rather  than  deeds  of  love  to  fellow-man  ; 
Returning  home  from  church  one  morning  found 
A  homeless  vagrant  stretched  upon  the  ground, 
And,  fresh  from  exhortation  of  the  word, 
A  new  emotion  in  his  heart  was  stirred, 
Bidding  him  play  the  kindly  friend  in  need, 
And  prove  a  Good  Samaritan  indeed. 
And  so  he  bade  the  luckless  stranger  come 
For  a  brief  shelter  to  his  hearth  and  home. 

And  now  behold  our  Christian  of  the  schools 
Breaking  the  bread  of  life  to  hungry  souls ; 

Not  greatly  trammeled  he  by  golden  rules, 

As  to  the  traveler  scraps  and  crumbs  he  doles  :- 

Feeding  the  body  that  he  might  prelude 

A  draught  upon  the  stranger's  gratitude, 

But  representing  love,  we  grieve  to  say, 

In  a  most  meagre,  patronizing  way, 

As  if  the  appetite  so  long  repressed, 

Might  suffer  by  a  too  indulgent  zest. 


(75) 


The  stranger,  thankful  even  for  the  least, 
Was  dealt  the  poorest  morsels  of  the  feast, 
And,  at  the  last,  as  the  dessert  passed  by, 
Received  the  acutest  angle  of  the  pie. 

And  now  says  the  good  host,  with  reverent  air, 

Hast  ever  meekly  bowed  thy  head  in  prayer  ? 

No  ?     Then  I'll  teach  thee  how  to  fitly  say 

"Our  Father" — He  to  whom  in  Heaven  we  pray. 

"Our  Father," — says  the  stranger  in  amaze  ; 

Is  such  the  name  to  which  the  Christian  prays  ? 

"Our  Father,"  did  you  say — both  mine  and  yours  ? 

Why,  that  my  right  of  brotherhood  insures, 

And,  pray  excuse  me,  but  a  light  breaks  in  ; 

If  we  are  really  so  near  of  kin, 

Dear  Christian  brother,  is  it  more  than  fair 

To  bring  this  new  relationship  to  bear, 

And  recognize  the  bond  'twixt  you  and  I 

By  giving  me  a  larger  share  of  pie  1 


(76) 


DONE  ON  BOTH  SIDES. 


Blue  Monday  found  the  parson  wan  and  worn, — 

In  that  unhappy,  fretful  state  of  mind, 
Where  common  mortals  doubtless  would  have  sworn, 

And  thus  profanely  left  their  cares  behind : 
Not  so  the  parson ;  he  must  patient  bear 
His  buriens,  with  no  safety-valve  of  swear, 
Save  the  rude  growling  which  we  worldlings  call 
About  the  worst  profanity  of  all. 
And  so  we  find  him  with  lugubrious  face, 
Bewailing  the  misfortunes  of  his  case, 
Unmindful  of  the  fact  that  burdens  fall 
In  divers  shapes  and  different  times  on  all. 
A  friend  and  neighbor  listening  to  his  plaint, 
Sought  to  console  the  sal  and  suffering  saint, 
By  hints  that  laymen  likewise  bore  their  share 
Of  Sunday's  burden,  with  its  wear  and  tear. 
The  parson  in  amazement  raised  his  eyes, 
And  viewed  his  friend  and  neighbor  with  surprise ; 
"  'Tis  yours  to  rest,  good  brother,  while  I  preach 
And  rack  my  brain  for  proper  thought  and  speech ; 
Your  round  of  Sabbath  duties  holds  no  call 
To  work  from  morn  till  evening  shadows  fall." 
The  layman  listened  in  respectful  way, 
To  all  the  worthy  parson  chose  to  say, 
And  then  in  kindly  tone  of  mild  reproach, 
Ventured  a  different  phase  of  thought  to  broach, — 
"Granted  the  preacher's  toil  beyoni  all  doubt, 
Yet  one  important  fact  he's  counted  out: 


You  do  the  preaching,  but  you  quite  forget 

The  weary  listeners  who  sit  and  fret, 

And  all  too  often,  you  may  rest  assured, 

We,  more  than  you,  have  suffered  and  endured." 

Two  lessons  may  the  reader  here  deduce : — 
One  for  the  parson  for  his  special  use, — 
To  wit, — that  though  he  labor  e'er  so  hard, 
And  preach,  as  he  supposes,  by  the  card, 
Not  all  the  eloquence  his  tongue  can  use 
May  head  off  weariness  within  the  pews, 
And  in  the  question  of  a  Sabbath  rest, 
'Tis  not  unlikely  that  he  fares  the  best. 

But  not  alone  does  preacher  fail  to  read 

The  best  interpretation  of  his  creed  ; 

And  here  comes  in  our  Lesson  Number  Two, 

Which  bears  directly  upon  me  and  you ; 

Let  us  remember  in  our  weary  mood, 

The  waste  of  time  in  which  we  fret  and  brood ; — 

That  there  are  no  exemptions  in  the  plan 

Which  places  burdens  upon  every  man, 

And  that  he  best  enjoys  Jiis  honors  won, 

Who  laughs  at  care  and  has  his  honest  fun. 

Let  parsons  lay  their  burdens  on  their  shelves, 

And  keep  their  petty  troubles  to  themselves, 

And  laymen  so  conduct  their  daily  walk 

That  there  may  be  less  need  of  Sabbath  talk. 

Something  like  this,  we  think  may  help  to  prove 

How  much  of  weariness  we  might  remove ; 

The  world  would  surely  be  more  joyous  then, 

And  even  parsons  might  be  better  men. 


(78) 


A  QUERY. 


Who  calls  his  life  a  failure ;  have  you  thought 
How  cruel  and  unjust  the  charge  might  be  ? 
Has  all  your  long  experience  never  taught 
That  many  battles  may  be  bravely  fought, 
Which  do  not  lead  to  open  victory? — 

That  staunchest  virtues  wage  a  losing  fight 

On  this  uneven  battle-ground  of  doom ; 
And  sterling  worth  may  never  come  to  light, 
So  deeply  shadowed  in  the  gloom  of  night, 
That  heaven  alone  its  presence  can  illume. 

And  this  poor  fellow,  gone  at  last  to  rest, 

His  life  enclouded  e'er  it  had  begun ; 
Can  you  not  hope  that  he  has  done  his  best 
With  the  small  gifts  of  which  he  was  possessed, 

And  what  could  highest  manhood  more  have  done  ? 

And  you  his  judge  ?  you,  who  have  never  known 
An  hour  of  real  care  to  haunt  your  mind, 

Who  bade  you  take  on  this  censorious  tone, 

Assuming  that  your  little  world  alone 

Held  all  the  virtue  of  the  gods  combined  ? 


(79) 


O  'tis  an  easy  thing  for  Fortune's  pet 
To  patronize  the  weak  beneath  his  feet  ; 

To  wear  the  supercilious  coronet 

(For  which,  by  birth  or  chance,  he  lives  in  debt^) 
That  crowns  the  kingdom  of  a  fool's  conceit. 

Then  spare  your  cold  contempt  all  undeserved ; 

It  has  no  place  beside  this  humble  grave ; 
Cleaner  his  record,  though  he  may  have  swerved, 
Than  that  of  men  who  only  better  served, 

Because  their  Maker  richer  talents  gave. 

Heaven  credits  us,  we  trust,  with  our  intent, 

And  not  with  every  weak  and  stumbling  fall ; 
Else  could  we  understand  but  little  meant 
When  speaking  of  the  care  beneficent, 

That  in  His  Providence,  is  showered  on  all. 

God  our  poor  judgments  often  will  reverse, 

Interpreting  our  failures  as  success. 
He  placed  us  here  for  better  and  for  worse, 
And  though  some  lives  may  seem  to  hold  a  curse, 

Yet  each  can  have  its  little  power  to  bless. 


(SO) 


GOOSE  EGG  HATCHED  OUT. 


'•Little  Jack  Homer 

Sat  in  the  corner,"  &c. — Mother  Goose. 


From  legend  or  fable 

The  preacher  is  able 
To  cook  up  a  dish  that  will  garnish  his  table, 

And  the  text  we  have  quoted 

May  well  be  devoted 

To  airing  a  streak  for  which  some  men  are  noted. 
There  are  plenty  of  fellows  about  us  to  day, 
Who  tackle  their  pie  in  a  Horner-like  way, 

And  Horner  the  first 

Is  by  no  means  the  worst 

Of  the  Homers  with  which  we  are  sadly  accursed. 
The  creature  of  fable  is  quite  hid  from  sight 
By  Homers  that  knock  him  as  high  as  a  kite, 

And  the  grip  of  the  thumb 

Which  they  put  on  the  plum, 
Would  strike  the  plain  amateur  pie- eater  dumb. 

With  an  evident  air 

Of  a  "deuced  if  they  care 
Whether  any  one  else  shall  come  in  for  a  share," 


(81) 


Poor  you  and  poor  I 
Might  stand  hungrily  by 
Without  getting  even  a  smell  of  the  pie. 

The  Homer  of  old  was  mythic  and  vague ; 
The  Jack  of  to-day  is  a  positive  plague, 

That  ought  to  be  missed, 

But  contrives  to  exist, 
To  illustrate  the  possible  use  of  a  curse, 
By  comparing  the  bad  with  what  might  have  been  worse. 
Oh !  Horner,  old  chap,  if  you  only  but  knew 
What  awful  hard  things  folks  are  saying  of  you ; 
If  you  only  could  hear  the  unpleasant  remarks 
That  crop  out  in  discussing  of  ravenous  sharks ; 
Unless  you've  a  conscience  remarkably  spry, 
You  would  lose  half  the  relish  of  eating  your  pie. 
There's  a  Scriptural  hint  that  an  oven  is  heating, 
Where  the  "very  old  Horner"  will  cook  for  his  eating, 

And  his  pie — don't  forget  it, — 

(You'll  know  when  he's  ate  it,) 
Will  be  brim-full  of  such  plums  as  you,  if  you  let  it, 

And  when  you  shall  die, 

Unless  epitaphs  lie, 
On  your  tombstone  shall  read,"  What  a  mean  wretch  was  I." 

Now  Jack  of  the  story 

Felt  quite  "hunki-dori," 
As  he  sat  in  conceited  and  conscious  self  glory, 

Yet  somehow  or  other, 

You  or  I  it  might  bother, 
To  act  quite  so  much  like  a  pig's  elder  brother, 


(8*) 


And  there  might  come  a  feeling 

That  that  kind  of  dealing 

In  decent  men's  eyes  seemed  the  next  door  to  stealing, 
So  if  ever  it  strikes  you  as  something  quite  nice, 
To  devour  all  your  pie,  never  leaving  a  slice, 

You'd  better  think  twice 

Of  the  selfish  device 
Before  selling  out  at  so  narrow  a  price, 

And  scatter  a  plum 

From  the  liberal  sum 
That  the  Fates  may  have  kindly  placed  under  your  thumb, 

And  whenever  you  feed, 

Pray  don't  in  your  greed, 
Forget  your  poor  neighbor  in  pitiful  need, 

But  pass  your  pie  round 

And  the  writer'll  be  bound 
That  the  seed  of  your  plums  will  spring  up  in  good  ground, 

Bearing  fruit  every  day 

That  will  fully  repay 
For  the  labor  and  sacrifice  given  away. 


(83) 


PHILOSOPHIC  SALAD, 


COMPOUNDED  OF 


SUNDRY    CRUSTS    AND    CRUMBS 


(84) 


LOCAL  PHILOSOPHY. 


What  is  Philosophy  but  common  sense 
Adjusted  to  the  ways  of  Providence  ? 

Better  than  all  your  philanthropic  talks, 
Are  ashes  scattered  over  icy  walks. 

Trying  to  serve  at  once  both  God  and  Mammon, 
We're  credibly  informed,  is  purely  gammon. 

Good  neighborhoods  owe  much  to  common  sense, 
Backed  up  by  patience  and  a  high  board-fence. 

"Nothing  is  lost,"  exclaim  some  owl- like  "fellers  ;" 
Then  where  on  earth  are  all  my  old  umbrellas  ? 

Next  to  a  lack  of  brain  comes  lack  of  thought : 
Men  give  this  less  attention  than  they  ought. 

1  n  willing  charity  at  best  will  seem 

Like  milk  of  human  kindness,  robbed  of  cream. 

In  spite  of  all  the  poet  dreams  or  sings, 
God's  real  angels  move  with  feet,  not  wings. 

The  law  of  compensation  carries  double ; 
Your  fun  may  represent  another's  trouble. 

Develop  bumps  of  jollity  and  mirth 

And  work  your  happiness  for  all  its  worth. 

i   6  (85-) 


He  that  expects  to  clearly  solve  Life's  riddle, 
Might  just  as  well  hang  up  his  bow  and  fiddle. 

We  often  wonder — will  the  world  of  bliss 
Have  any  better  show  for  us  than  this. 

Whether  to-day  be  wreathed  with  smiles  or  tears, 
But  little  matters  in  a  thousand  years. 

Make,  while  you  can,  the  most  of  youthful  joys ; 
Old  age  trips  up  the  liveliest  of  the  boys. 

Ah !  friend,  the  things  we  ought  to  value  most, 
Are  never  fairly  prized  till  they  are  lost. 

How  few  of  us  have  not  in  some  way  sung 

That  good  old  tune  of  "Go  it  while  you're  young." 

Don't  boast  of  your  apparent  luck  too  soon ; 
To-morrow  you  may  sing  a  different  tune. 

Anticipation  will  quite  often  bless 
More  than  reality,  and  costs  much  less. 

Youth  builds  its  castles  from  most  stunning  plans 
And  sets  in  motion  gorgeous  caravans ; 

Old  age,  from  out  the  shaky  castle  wall, 
Has  seen  the  elephant  and  that  is  all. 


(86) 


The  "cussedness"  of  man,  we  grieve  to  say, 
Has  often  pushed  Heaven's  choicest  gifts  away. 

Let  well  enough  alone ;  don't  fret  and  fuss 
Because  the  good  things  don't  all  come  to  us. 

He  is  a  Christian  who  can  daily  wear 
A  mask  of  cheer  to  hide  a  life  of  care. 

If  our  designs  were  not  sometimes  defeated, 
The  human  animal  would  grow  conceited. 

Because  your  wish  was  vain,  don't  feel  distressed ; 
"What  can't  be  cured  must  be" — you  know  the  rest. 

Love  in  a  cottage,  with  baked  beans  for  two, 
Discounts  a  palace  with  its  gold  and  blue. 

A  healthy  proverb — "Look  before  you  leap ;" 
'Twill  save  you  landing  in  a  garbage  heap. 

We  don't  suppose  that  Heaven  ever  meant 
That  we  should  settle  down  in  pure  content. 

It  can't  be  long  before  we  slip  away ; 
Let's  take  a  little  comfort  while  we  may. 

Why  do  they  always  wait  till  we  are  dead 
Before  they  let  their  words  of  praise  be  said  ? 


(87) 


Don't  fool  on  slippery  ground ;  with  proper  care 
A  man  stays  right  end  up  most  anywhere. 

It  mostly  happens  that  the  man  of  brag 
Pulls  at  a  heavier  load  than  he  can  drag. 

No  man  not  tested  has  a  right  to  say 
How  much  temptation  he  can  put  away. 

As  years  go  by,  old  chap,  the  chance  increases 
That  your  philosophy  will  fall  to  pieces. 

The  driest  turf  upon  a  barren  heath 
May  hide  a  rich  bonanza  underneath. 

A  waste  of  time — to  scour  up  souls  on  Sunday 
And  drag  them  in  the  dirt  again  on  Monday. 

Why  fish  for  heathen  on  a  foreign  shore, 
When  hosts  of  unconverted  live  next  door? 

In  striving  lesser  joys  and  sweets  to  taste, 
We  let  life's  real  pleasures  go  to  waste. 

Brains  have  a  tone  of  good  repute  about  them, 
But  lots  of  fellows  scrub  along  without  them. 

"Remember  to  keep  well  the  Sabbath  Day;" 
This  doesn't  mean — "give  other  days  away." 


(88) 


Why  was  not  Life  all  happiness  ani  fun  V 
We  give  it  up ;  give  us  an  easier  one. 

He  is  no  friend  who  careless  lets  us  stra}r 
Into  some  wicked  and  forbidden  way. 

Hard  fact  and  sentiment  may  often  vary; 
Tombstones  can  lie  like  sin,  but  figures — "nary." 

In  serving  others  stand  upon  your  rights ; 
Don't  act  as  tails  for  other  people's  kites. 

"All  is  not  gold  that  glitters  ;"  this  accounts 
For  sundry  frauds  and  spurious  amounts. 

I've  ever  noticed  that  the  loudest  scoffer 
Has  seldom  had  a  better  thing  to  offer. 

Keep  cool,  young  man;  there's  nothing  gained  by  worrying, 
And  many  races  have  been  lost  by  hurrying. 

See  to  it,  friend,  that  all  your  loud  professing, 
Drops  in  your  pathway  little  seeds  of  blessing. 

Before  you  count  a  wayward  brother  out, 
Give  him  the  benefit  of  every  doubt. 

Ten-cent  cigars  and  constant  swrigs  of  beer, 
Absorb  a  heap  of  money  in  a  year. 


The  level-headed  man  will  not  dispute 
With  one  who  wears  a  larger  size  of  boot. 

Diplomacy,  dear  friend,  is  largely  tact 

In  making  humbug  serve  the  place  of  fact. 

Men  conquer  giant  oaks  with  mighty  rush, 
Yet  get  all  tangled  in  the  underbrush. 

"Tig  possible  with  ample  moral  tone, 
To  have  a  little  heaven  of  your  own. 

We  find  our  neighbors  full  of  moral  taints, 
While  we  of  course  are  embryotic  saints. 

Who  curbs  the  tongue,  will  find,  to  say  the  least, 
They're  harnessing  a  very  curious  beast. 

Some  are  content,  howe'er  the  Fates  decree  it ; 
"All's  for  the  best,"  they  say,  but  I  can't  see  it. 

You'll  aim  to  smother  trouble  if  you're  wise ; 
Small  griefs,  if  harped  on,  swell  to  mountain  size. 

Be  ever  helpful;  they  who  highest  roost, 
Climb  all  the  better  for  a  gentle  "boost." 

"Childlike"  and  "bland" — two  taffy-laden  phrases,- 
Applied  to  ways  that  may  mislead  like  blazes. 


(00) 


A  soothing  syrup  for  the  truly  humble — 
When  they  slip  up  they  haven't  far  to  tumble. 

Tears  dropped  in  spilled  milk  only  weaken  more 
The  lacteal  that  was  all  too  thin  before. 

How  much  of  honesty  is  true  and  candid, 

Or  how  much  may  be  fairly  termed  left-handed  ? 

Who  spends  beyond  his  income  drifts  to  want ; 
A  solid  fact — that  "two  from  one  you  can't." 

The  human  mule,  for  stupidness,  can  beat 
His  quadrupedal  namesake  every  heat. 

Frown  not  on  aspirants  for  fame  and  honor ; 
The  man  without  ambition  is  a  "goner." 

One  over-zealous  friend  may  work  more  ill 
Than  twenty  active  enemies  can  will. 

No  rule  of  conduct  answers  for  us  all ; 

Coats  that  fit  me  may  prove  for  you  too  small. 

Doubtless  it  proves  a  blessing  to  some  men, 
To  have  a  little  set-back  now  and  then. 

There's  no  philosophy  we've  ever  tried, 
Which  for  the  back  and  stomach  could  provide. 


One  sin  doth  many  virtues  counteract ; — 
This  is  not  poetry  but  bottom  fact. 

Young  man,  remember  that  your  worthy  dad 
Works  from  experience  you  haven't  had. 

They  tell  us  that  hard  luck  developes  men, 
And  yet  we  are  not  happy  even  then. 

Will  some  one  tell  us  why  the  ripest  peach 
Forever  grows  the  farthest  from  our  reach. 

A  maxim  paradoxical  in  kind  : — 

"Go  slow"— it  seldom  leaves  one  far  behind. 

If  half  our  recollections  were  "forgets," 
'Twould  leave  unborn  our  bitterest  regrets. 

There  is  no  friendship  which  can  stand  the  wear 
Of  drafts  made  any  time  and  every  where. 

The  poorest  scallawag  that  passes  by, 
'Is  just  as  much  God's  child  as  you  or  I. 

The  doors  of  opportunity  are  wide ; 

Don't  say  you  can't  get  in  before  you've  tried. 

Take  off  your  hat  to  merit  where  you  find  it, 
Regardless  of  the  poverty  behind  it. 


(WO 


Fractions  are  vulgar,  but  however  small, 
Give  us  the  fraction  if  we  can't  have  all. 

He  that  is  born  a  day  behind  the  times, 
Seldom  to  any  high  position  climbs. 

Wisdom  from  Folly  doth  but  little  differ ; — 
A  few  years  older  grown  and  somewhat  stiffer. 

Of  many  evils  choose  the  least,  though  then 
We'll  bet  a  hat  you'd  like  to  choose  again. 

It  would  be  something  quite  unique  and  nice 
If  people  sometimes  took  their  own  advice. 

In  this  poor  life  where  much  must  needs  go  ill, 
The  cheerful  man  fills  an  important  bill. 

He  is  the  true  philosopher  who  makes 

A  seeming  blessing  grow  from  his  mistakes. 

Don't  count  the  man  with  sober  phiz  a  bear ; 
Warm  hearts  may  throb  beneath  a  look  of  care. 

Quite  unavoidable — in  stating  facts, 

One  often  deals  out  most  unfriendly  whacks. 

How  some  chaps  come  by  all  their  high  priced  clothes, 
Heaven  and  the  unpaid  tailor  only  knows. 


Forbidden  fruit,  though  sweet,  we  think  you'll  find 
Decays  much  sooner  than  the  other  kind. 

In  judging  others,  labor  to  be  fair ; 

We  can't  tell  what  we'd  do  if  we  were  there. 

Some  folks  are  born  for  luck ;  they  hit  the  mark, 
Though  shooting  ne'er  so  blindly  in  the  dark. 

Count  fifty  when  you  feel  inclined  to 'swear; 
'Twill  cool  you  off  and  purify  the  air. 

Though  eight  quarts  make  a  peck  by  book  or  sum, 
One  makes  a  peck — of  trouble  (if  it's  rum.) 

We  find  it  edifying  to  observe 

How  little  men  expect  what  they  deserve. 

The  market  rate  of  every  man  depends 
Upon  the  good  opinion  of  his  friends. 

Friend,  for  an  honest  blander  feel  not  sore ; 
Who  does  his  best  can  surely  do  no  more. 

A  huge  mistake  ; — to  under-rate  your  foe ; 
Who  does  it  lets  one  half  his  chances  go. 

The  world  has  yet  to  learn  that  any  laurels 
Have  ever  grown  from  vict'ries  won  in  quarrels. 


(W) 


Philosophers  are  men  who  never  fret, 
But  specimens  are  very  rare  as  yet ; 

Female  philosophers,  therefore  you  see, 
Must  ever  be  an  unknown  quantity. 

We're  finding  out  by  very  slow  degrees, 
That  men  can't  gather  figs  from  thistle  trees. 

It  isn't  every  one  who  comprehends 
The  value  of  the  little  odds  and  ends. 

Our  dread  is  not  so  much  of  sin,  I  fear, 
As  that  our  slip  may  reach  somebody's  ear. 

How  it  would  brighten  Life's  tempestuous  weather 
If  everybody  only  pulled  together. 

Some  people  never  ripen  ;  they're  as  green 
At  seventy-five  as  when  they  were  sixteen. 

A  consolation  staunch  and  water-tight; — 
In  Heaven's  plan,  "Whatever  is,  is  right." 

It  often  happens  that  the  biggest  muddle 

Comes  from  the  smallest  toad  that  stirs  the  puddle. 

Take  any  side  that's  backed  by  common  sense, 
But  don't  for  goodness'  sake  sit  on  the  fence. 


Both  good  and  ill  from  the  same  threads  are  spun  ; 
The  bee  makes  honey,  but  he  stings  like  fun. 

A  straw  for  those  whose  hope  needs  resurrecting, — 
Things  pan  out  well  when  we  are  least  expecting. 

Whatever  is  inherited  adheres; 

"Silk  purses  are  not  made  from  porcine  ears." 

No  true  politeness  ever  made  it  proper 
To  flatter  with  a  taffy-laden  whopper. 

Sarcasm  catches  hold  where  logic  fails, 

And  sharply  handled,  drives  some  clinching  nails. 

When  rogues  approve  of  what  you  say  and  do, 
Isn't  it  time  to  stop  and  start  anew. 

Some  people  never  rate  a  project  high, 
Unless  they  have  a  finger  in  the  pie. 

"What  folks  might  say,"  is  the  Satanic  charm 
That  bolsters  up  a  deal  of  needless  harm. 

Beware  of  small  mistakes ;  a  trifling  blunder, 

In  spite  of  all  your  strength  may  drag  you  under. 

Sharp  bargains  play  the  mischief  with  the  heart, 
And  ought  not  to  be  reckoned  in  as  smart. 


Place  proper  value  on  your  good  old  mother ; 
When  she  pegs  out  you  can't  scare  up  another. 

The  swine  lack  one  accomplishment  of  man  ; 
They  cannot  use  tobacco  and  we  can. 

When  all  at  once  the  wicked  man  grows  kind, 
Depend  upon  it  he's  an  axe  to  grind. 

Through  sheer  neglect  we  drift  into  a  pickle, 
And  then  we  whine  at  Fortune  being  fickle. 

Unless  a  man  has  got  an  iron  system, 

It  won't  take  long  for  alcohol  to  twist  him. 

Nature  assigns  each  living  thing  its  right; 
Dogs  have  their  day  and  cats  about  all  night. 

A  constant  saving  of  a*  dime  a  day, 

In  years  to  come  may  keep  the  wolf  away. 

The  best  society,  blue-blood  or  not, 
Often  pans  out  a  miscellaneous  lot. 

He  who  expects  to  take  in  all  he  hears, 
Must  build  an  annex  to  enlarge  his  ears. 

Some  men  forget  more  in  an  hour  or  two, 
Than  others  in  a  life  time  ever  knew. 


My  lazy  friend,  take  this  advice  on  trust : — 
The  bread  of  idleness  is  largely  crust. 

Truth  epitaphic — "Ceased  from  earthly  labors, 
She  rests  in  peace,"  and — also  do  her  neighbors. 

For  men  to  build  too  much  upon  self-glory, 
Betokens  weakness  in  the  upper  story. 

Brains  do  not  come  at  will,  though  kings  command  it ; 
He  that  is  born  a  fool  has  got  to  stand  it. 

They  say  sea-sickness  has  its  healthy  side ; 
It  can't  be  any  that  we  ever  tried. 

'  The  man  so  hard  that  sorrow  will  not  soften, 
Can't  say  his  prayers  too  early  or  too  often. 

Surprises  catch  us  in  so  many  ways, 
Philosophy  goes  begging  now-a-days. 

Haste  with  glad  tidings,  but  be  slow  with  news, 
The  tone  of  which  can  only  wound  or  bruise. 

The  gift  of  life  is  shamefully  abused ; 
More  time  is  wasted  than  is  ever  used. 

Even  a  ghost  might  be  induced  to  laugh ; — 
To  read  the  lies  that  cram  his  epitaph. 


(98) 


When  one's  salvation  is  a  thing  of  doubt, 
Don't  ask  his  politics  but  pull  him  out. 

Men  who  are  starving  can't  afford  to  question 
What  is  or  is  not  proper  for  digestion. 

Pride  as  a  sauce,  has  in  it  much  of  savor, 
But  as  an  entire  meal  is  not  in  favor. 

Satan  contrives  to  pull  on  every  wire 
That  runs  a  toasting  fork  into  his  fire. 

Tis  mighty  handy  as  a  sort  of  blind, 

To  say  you've  left  your  pocket-book  behind. 

Take  note  that  men  who  climb  ambition's  ladder, 
Most  always  slide  down  wiser  men  and  sadder. 

Seeming  Humility  may  ape  its  guise, 
Just  to  throw  dust  in  other  people's  eyes. 

While  you  are  telling  of  "what  can't  be  done," 
Another  scores  the  innings  at  a  run. 

What  passes  current  as  profound  astuteness, 
Is  often  nothing  but  spasmodic  cuteness. 

'Twere  better  for  the  weak  and  chicken-hearted 
If  their  terrestrial  car  had  never  started. 


(99) 


You  need  not  fear  that  an  excess  of  virtue, 
Will  ever  come  in  quantities  to  hurt  you. 

There  is  a  proverb  somewhere  in  the  books, 
That  puts  good  conduct  quite  beyond  good  looks. 

That  blamed  idea  of  rising  with  the  lark, 
Sprung  from  some  wooden-headed  patriarch. 

Let  not  old  people  sneer  at  childish  ways; 
All  geese  were  goslings  in  their  younger  days. 

Custom  will  reconcile  a  man  to  uses, 
That  once  he  looked  upon  as  grave  abuses. 

Pay  all  your  honest  debts  before  you  try 
To  put  on  airs  and  live  in  luxury. 

Book  learning  has  its  use,  but  common  sense 

Will  pass  (parse)  without  the  aid  of  mood  or  tense. 

The  good  will  of  the  meanest  curs  that  yelp, 
May  some  day  prove  a  veiy  useful  help. 

Let  those  who  small  beginnings  would  despise, 
Study  the  story  of  an  acorn's  rise. 

Heaven  has  no  room  for  worries  or  complaints, 
No  grumblers  are  transmogrified  to  saints. 


(100) 


Where  the  shoe  pinches  none  so  well  can  say, 
As  he  who  limps  in  torment  day  by  day. 

The  man  whose  heart  is  wedded  to  his  dimes, 
Will  make  his  future  home  in  tropic  climes. 

"The  good  die  young :" — therefore  we  may  conclude 
That  you  and  I  are  anything  but  good. 

A  dainty  stomach  can't  afford  to  look 
Too  closely  at  the  methods  of  the  cook. 

Lotteries,  my  friend,  are  wicked  and  unwise, 
Unless  your  ticket  chance  to  draw  a  prize. 

Stiff  upper-lip  and  amplitude  of  cheek 

Brace  up  some  chaps  who  are  confounded  weak. 

The  record  of  no  man  is  quite  so  clear 
As  not  to  furnish  food  for  gossip's  ear. 

People  endowed  with  gab  must  not  forget 
That  hasty  speech  gives  birth  to  much  regret. 

Don't  aim  too  large  a  portion  to  control; 

Who  grasps  too  much,  perchance  may  lose  the  whole. 

His  is  a  poor  excuse  whose  lack  of  thought, 
Alone  shall  plead  his  case  should  he  be  caught. 


(1Q1) 


It  isn't  safe  for  any  one  to  bet 

That  all  the  fools  are  dead  and  buried  yet: — 

While  men  rate  human  wisdom,  so  to  speak, 
By  loud  profession  and  extent  of  cheek; 

While  Fortune's  drones  cast  idiotic  snub 
On  honest  toilers  for  their  daily  grub ; 

When  common  sense  good  people  so  much  lack, 
They  starve  the  stomach  to  adorn  the  back ; 

While  dolts,  oblivious  to  the  risk  they  run, 
Would  solve  the  problem  of  a  loaded  gun, 

Or  in  her  careless  haste,  a  kitchen  queen 
Climbs  Heavenward  by  the  aid  of  kerosene  ; 

While  men  are  found  so  ready  to  endorse 
For  those  who  ride  a  lame  financial  horse, 

Or  others,  blindly  stupid,  recommend 
An  arrant  scoundrel  for  a  worthy  friend, 

Or  think  to  play  the  game  of  politics, 

By  counting  any  honors  with  the  tricks: — 

While  things  like  these  are  rife,  we're  free  to  say — 
"The  fools  are  not  all  dead  and  packed  away." 


The  world  is  moving,  friend;  if  you  don't  mind, 
The  train  will  start  and  you'll  be  left  behind. 

Whene'er  we  see  the  head  ignore  the  heart, 
\Vc-  think  there's  such  a  thing  as  being  too  smart. 

Candor  is  quite  desirable,  but  pray 

Don't  give  quite  all  you  think  or  know  away. 

Act  for  yourself ;  this  doing  things  by  proxy, 
Is  worthy  of  the  lazy  and  the  foxy. 

Take  not  to  heart  the  scoldings  of  a  friend ; 
True  love  may  chide,  but  never  should  offend. 

With  what  we  have  we  seldom  are  content, 
But  always  long  for  blessings  never  sent. 

In  calculating  chances,  always  make 
A  due  allowance  for  an  unseen  break. 

A  proper  rule  for  greedy  ones  to  follow  ; — 
Never  to  bite  off  more  than  they  can  swallow. 

An  ounce  of  wise  prevention,  so  they  say, 
Is  worth  a  dozen  doctors  any  day. 

Happy  the  man  who  can  philosophize 
That  all  his  woes  are  blessings  in  disguise. 


(103) 


Work  out  your  own  salvation;  don't  depend 
Upon  that  doubtful  quantity,  your  friend. 

The  veriest  rascal  may  give  good  advice  ; 
He  bought  his  wisdom  at  the  highest  price. 

A  hint  for  general  use ; — he  is  a  dunce, 
Who  thinks  to  occupy  two  stools  at  once. 

Young  man,  the  time  will  come,  depend  upon  it, 
When  you  are  sure  to  wish  you  hadn't  done  it. 

What  is  sweet  music  for  one  man  to  hear, 
Is  pandemonium  to  another's  ear. 

Heaven's  blessing  rest  with  him  who  stamps  a  veto 
On  that  tormenting  nuisance,  the  mosquito. 

A  dollar  earned  buys  more  of  real  Heaven, 
Than  twenty  dollars  that  are  idly  given. 

King  Solomon  was  level  when  he  said — 
"Look  not  upon  the  wine  when  it  is  red." 

Apologies  sometimes  act  like  a  curse, 

And  serve  to  make  the  previous  question  worse. 

Before  you  marry  use  deliberate  thought ; 
Too  late  to  reconsider  when  you're  caught. 


(101) 


Strive  not  to  know  too  much ,  rather  be  sure 
That  what  you  do  know  is  the  Simon-pure. 

Our  zeal  and  interest  is  largest  shown 
In  everybody's  business  but  our  own. 

'Tis  better  to  arise  an  hour  too  soon, 
Than  take  your  breakfast  in  the  afternoon. 

Repenting  under  fire  is  rather  thin ; 
The  Lord  is  not  so  easy  taken  in. 

Go  very  slow ;  then,  if  you  jump  the  track, 
You'll  stand  a  better  chance  of  working  back. 

Imagination  plays  a  powerful  hand 
In  wafting  Fancy's  sails  to  real  land. 

A  glaring  weakness ;  to  be  self-deceived ; 
We  often  glory  when  we  should  have  grieved. 

The  world  has  room  enough,  kind  Heaven  knows, 
\Vithout  our  treading  on  each  other's  toes. 

Christians  are  born,  not  made ;  we  find  that  out 
By  passing  contribution  plates  about. 

'Tis  quite  astounding  how  some  chaps  get  on, 
With  all  their  capital  and  credit  gone. 


(105) 


Don't  hope  to  squelch  a  courtship  by  abuse ; 
Where  hearts  are  trumps,  clubs  are  of  little  use. 

Were  wisdom  born  with  our  advancing  years, 
Old  age  would  wear  more  smiles  and  fewer  tears. 

A  picture  of  contentment  hard  to  match ; — 
A  full  blown  darkey  in  a  melon  patch. 

Bad  luck  the  day  when  Adam  lost  his  head, 
And  made  as  fellows  toil  and  sweat  for  bread. 

Experience  proves  it  neither  safe  nor  wise 
To  argue  with  a  man  that's  twice  your  size. 

Self-praise  may  be  a  weakness  to  regret, 
But  then  you  know,  'tis  all  some  fellows  get. 

Among  your  luxuries,  include  old  boots; 
They  show  up  comfort  to  its  veiy  roots. 

Man's  appetite  will  always  take  the  lead ; 
The  babe's  first  ciy  is  solid  for  its  feed. 

Wise  is  that  man  who  waiteth  for  his  smile, 
Till  he  has  landed  safely  o'er  the  stile. 

Though  cynics  grind  their  epigrams  at  will, 
The  world  clings  to  its  own  opinions  still. 


In  happiest  hours  are  hidden  bitter  pills, 

The  feast  that  gorges  breeds  the  pain  that  kills. 

Modern  extravagance  has  no  defence 
In  running  things  regardless  of  expense : 

A  third-class  coach  will  take  you  just  as  far 
As  though  you  traveled  in  a  palace  car ; 

Fine  clothes  will  decorate  a  dudish  form, 

But  homespun  cloth  will  keep  you  just  as  warm  ; 

Plain  bread  and  milk  will  make  a  fellow  fatter 
Than  high-price  1  game  or  oysters  fried  in  batter. 

We  have  this  hopeful  thought  to  lay  away, — 
That  people  don't  mean  half  of  what  they  say. 

Old  fashioned  honesty  is  hard  to  beat; 
Candor  is  better  than  polita  deceit. 

Mirth  is  a  medicine  and  they  who  laugh, 
Postpone  to  some  extent,  their  epitaph. 

Man's  inconsistency  his  conduct  trammels; 

He  strains  at  gnats  and  swallows  fearful  camels. 

The  mud  and  mire  of  life  is  deep,  'tis  tnie ; 
But  better  men  than  we  have  waded  through. 


A  very  slight  indulgence  now  and  then, 

Has  played  the  mischief  with  the  best  of  men. 

Those  who  must  dance  will  find  out  to  their  sorrow — 
The  fiddler's  bill  must  be  paid  on  the  morrow. 

An  argument  to  hang  up  on  a  peg : — 
"Which  started  first,  the  chicken  or  the  egg:"' 

"Gone  to  the  bad :"  the  usual  verdict  given, 

When  some  poor  chap  has  missed  the  way  to  Heaven. 

If  you  have  stingy  children,  blame  yourself ; 
It  shows  their  daddy  had  a  love  for  pelf. 

No  man  so  low  but  he  may  rise,  perhaps, 
And  none  so  lofty  but  he  may  collapse. 

'Twould  scarce  be  deemed  a  true  parental  merit, 
To  flog  a  child  for  what  he  might  inherit. 

Sail  in,  my  boy,  and  take  the  foremost  chance, 
If  you  desire  to  see  the  monkey  dance. 

One  man  will  careless  throw  into  the  fire, 
What  to  another  is  his  heart's  desire. 

At  other's  faults  and  failings  spare  your  jokes ; 
Your  wheel  may  have  some  loose  and  cranky  spokes. 


(108) 


Pigs  are  not  all  four-legged  ;  not  a  few 
Contrive  to  get  about  quite  well  on  two. 

Because  our  Uncle  Adam  acted  rash, 

We  can't  quite  think  the  world  is  going  to  smash. 

Here  is  a  fact,  though  some  won't  comprehend  it  :  — 
Nursing  a  trouble  never  helps  to  mend  it. 

"Fine  feathers  make  fine  birds,"  yet  none  the  less, 
A  bird  may  sweetly  sing  in  plainest  dress. 

Let  those  who  think  we're  moving  rather  slow, 
Compare  to-day  with  fifty  years  ago. 

Xo  one  who  scans  the  market  can  deny 
That  first-class  men  are  very  scarce  and  high. 

Friend,  do  not  cheat  thyself  with  the  conceit, 
That  all  the  brains  are  traveling  on  thy  feet. 

If  Hell  in  paved  with  good  intents  caved  in, 
The  writer  claims  a  right  of  way  therein. 

When  in  grave  doubt  switch  off  and  change  the  tune  ; 
You  cannot  leave  disputed  ground  too  soon. 


are  mental  insects  armed  with  stings, 
That  follow  in  our  wake  with  tireless  wings. 


That  most  men  have  their  price  we  may  not  doubt ; 
But  how  confounded  cheap  they  all  sell  out! 

As  well  try  cooling  Tophet  with  a  fan, 
As  using  reason  with  an  angry  man. 

Lack  of  ambition  cheapens  human  worth, 
In  any  market  on  this  bustling  earth. 

Sooner  or  late  in  every  man's  career, 
He  squeezeth  out  the  penitential  tear. 

Don't  fish  for  fortune  with  a  sudden  jerk ; 
The  patient  plodder  gets  in  solid  work. 

"Provide  things  honest:" — a  remark  of  Paul, 
Who  took  no  stock  in  tricky  fol-de-rol. 

"Not  lost  but  gone  before :" — a  pleasant  manner 
Of  stating  what  the  matter  was  with  Hannah. 

I  like  that  text  which  says — "Friend,  come  up  higher ;" 
It  catches  on  to  those  down  in  the  mire. 

The  world  existed  ere  you  came  to  town, 
And  will  move  on  when  you  are  salted  down. 

The  baldest  fact,  shown  in  an  honest  light, 
Knocks  all  your  theories  higher  than  a  kite. 


(110) 


Cure  for  insomnia: — hive  a  cushioned  pew, 
And  use  it  Sundays  for  a  month  or  two. 

Need  we  sulk  off  and  play  a  game  of  dumps, 
Because  our  cards  don't  always  turn  up  trumps  ? 

Repentance  doesn't  make  as  good  as  new ; 
We've  tried  it  on  and  know  this  to  be  true. 

You  can't  judge  business  by  the  splurge  that's  made ; 
Hens  often  cackle  when  they  haven't  laid. 

Never  exaggerate ;  if  you  must  lie, 

Explode  the  facts  and  blow  the  truth  sky-high. 

Give  out  that  some  poor  chap  has  missed  his  bearing, 
And  all  the  world  will  give  the  tale  an  airing. 

Haste  does  not  always  guarantee  completeness  ; 
The  fruit  that  soonest  ripens  lacks  in  sweetness. 

Draughts  from  an  open  window  play  the  deuce 
With  folks  whose  cog-wheels  are  a  little  loose. 

Beware,  young  men  and  maidens ;  greatest  catches 
May  often  prove  to  l>e  the  sorriest  matches. 

In  the  long  run,  simplicity  of  heart 

Will  win  more  friendship  than  deceitful  art. 


Reject  apologies,  as  any  goose 

Can  conjure  up  some  sort  of  an  excuse. 

How  meanly  must  some  men  regard  their  souls, 
To  squeeze  them  through  such  fearfully  small  holes. 

No  one  seemed  better  fixed  than  Father  Adam, 

Yet  blessings  slipped  him  when  he  thought  he  had  'em. 

No  doctors  have  been  able  to  invent 
An  antidote  to  head  off  discontent. 

God  never  meant  for  you,  on  state  occasions, 
To  turn  your  nose  up  at  your  poor  relations. 

Our  hands  may  work  more  mischief  in  a  day, 
Than  all  eternity  can  clear  away. 

How  does  it  always  happen  in  a  fuss, 
That  everybody  is  to  blame  but  us. 

Don't  waste  your  strength  in  idiotic  schemes, 
Born  of  wild  nightmares  and  dyspeptic  dreams. 

Who  feed  on  hopes  need  neither  beg  nor  starve; 
There's  always  one  upon  the  board  to  carve. 

The  smallest  speck  located  in  one's  eye, 
May  cloud  a  twenty  acre  lot  of  sky. 


(112) 


The  man  who  stubs  his  toe  and  doesn't  swear, 
Can  be  relied  on  for  an  honest  prayer. 

Behold,  how  all  the  rabble  of  the  town 
Will  pitch  into  a  fellow  when  he's  down. 

We  haven't  long  to  stay ;  let's  do  our  part, 
So  people  won't  shout  "Glory"  when  we  start. 

Never  forget  in  boasting  of  descent, 
That  birth  is  but  the  merest  accident. 

Truth  never  moves  in  complicated  tracks ; 
Children  and  fools  get  very  near  the  facts. 

Some  tears  are  no  more  kin  to  real  grief, 
Than  pure  tobacco  to  a  cabbage  leaf. 

A  deal  of  time  is  spent  in  picking  flaws, 
That  might  be  worked  into  a  better  cause. 

He  who  in  business  is  unjustly  sharp, 
Will  never  play  upon  a  Heavenly  harp. 

Don't  borrow  trouble  for  the  coming  day ;. 
The  present  penance  is  enough  to  pay. 

A  little  nonsense  mingled  with  our  toil, 
Acts  like  a  dose  of  lubricating  oil. 


(113) 


"Let  Satan  have  his  due;" — we  argue  thus, 
But  what  the  dickens  would  become  of  us '? 

Men  of  small  gifts  should  not  discouraged  be ; 
It  was  a  mouse  that  set  the  lion  free. 

"Be  wise  in  time ;" — which  means — don't  go  it  blind, 
And  everlastingly  come  in  behind. 

Console  yourself  in  trouble  with  this  thought ; — 
You  don't  get  half  the  punishment  you  ought. 

Fortune  coquettes  in  ways  both  rare  and  pleasing; 
Some  take  the  snuff  while  others  do  the  sneezing. 

Successful  financiering  now  consists 
In  giving  creditors  the  various  twists. 

Bluster  and  Brag  will  never  fill  the  bill ; 

"  'Tis  the  still  swine  that  gobble  up  the  swill." 

In  seeking  great  things,  ne'er  despise  the  less ; 
It's  but  a  step  'twixt  failure  and  success. 

Vice  only  needs  a  little  virtuous  paint, 
To  make  a  sinner  seem  a  finished  saint. 

Historic  records  amply  testify 

That  good  men  can  act  naughty — on  the  sly. 


(114) 


A  crumb  of  consolation  for  the  poor — 
They  easier  lift  the  latch  to  Heaven's  door. 

The  hand  of  Providence  takes  on  a  grip 
That  is  not  prone  to  let  its  business  slip. 

Hope  spins  a  thread  that  somehow  catches  on, 
Long  after  every  real  chance  is  gone. 

God  was  the  architect  who  planned  this  earth ; 
This  is  a  hint  to  those  who  doubt  its  worth. 

Bury  your  hates;  this  life  is  all  too  brief 

To  have  its  pleasure  marred  by  needless  grief. 

Columbus  had  a  very  faint  idea 

Of  what  a  "show"  he  started  over  here. 

Hope  is  perennial,  else  the  poor  old  heart 
Would  shrink  and  dry  up  till  it  fell  apart. 

Your  hearty  eater  seldom  waxeth  fat ; 
How  do  the  scientists  account  for  that? 

The  good  we  do  will  help  but  precious  little 
The  evil  part  of  our  account  to  settle. 

Knowledge  is  not  all  taught  by  book  or  school ; 
We  may  learn  wisdom  even  from  a  fool. 


(115) 


SOBERER  RHYMES. 


1 — LEAVES  FROM  LIFE. 

2 — RETROSPECTIVE. 

3 — CONTENTMENT. 

4 — A  LIFE'S  RECORD. 

5 — NOT  BOASTING,  BUT  HOPEFUL. 

6 — To  THE  SKEPTIC. 

7 — A  SUGGESTION. 

8 — LIFE'S  MYSTERY. 

9 — -A  SKELETON  IN  EVERY  CLOSET. 
10— OF  WHAT  AVAIL? 
11 — VAIN  GLORY. 
12 — OUR  WORLD. 


(116) 


LEAVES  FROM  LIFE. 


I— LONGING. 

"We  spend  our  years  but  as  a  tale  that's  told," 
And  poor  humanity  has  ever  striven 
To  lift  its  little  world-life  nearer  Heaven 

By  weaving  in  its  web  some  threads  of  gold. 

And  though  the  plot  is  drawn  with  master  skill 
And  wise  design  is  stamped  on  every  page, 

Like  some  poor  bird,  the  fettered  human  will 
Chafes  in  the  narrow  limits  of  its  cage. 

The  babe  with  tiny  hand  would  grasp  the  moon  ; 
The  boy  and  girl  in  air  their  castles  build, 

And  even  man,  in  life's  gray  afternoon, 
Its  sunset  rays  a  brighter  hue  would  gild. 

Thus  runs  the  story  through  the  ages  past ; 

So  must  it  ever  read  unto  the  last. 

II— EXPERIENCE 

Mysterious  volume !  writ  in  foreign  tongue, 

With  no  translating  hand  which  holds  the  key ; 
The  why  and  wherefore  of  our  destiny 

Has  never  yet  been  clearly  read  or  sung, 

i  8  (117) 


We  only  know — (ah!  know  we  not  too  much?) — 

That  not  again  in  any  coming  year, 
Shall  hover  quite  so  near  the  infant's  touch, 

The  glittering  bauble  it  had  held  so  dear. 
We  know  the  youth  and  maid  shall  build  in  vain, 

Their  fabric  melting  into  dust  and  tears, 
While  of  Life's  day-dreams,  little  shall  remain 

To  light  the  pilgrim  down  the  vale  of  years. 
And  this,  so  far  as  we  can  see  or  know, 
Will  close  the  book  to  mortals  here  below. 

Ill— HOPE. 

But  from  the  cravings  of  the  human  soul, 
Another  volume  has  been  long  foretold, 
In  radiant  garb  of  mingled  blue  and  gold, 

A  fitting  end  and  sequel  to  the  whole : 

And  here  the  Author  of  this  life  of  ours, — 
This  tangled  web  with  many  a  broken  thread, 

From  ugliest  thorns  has  culled  the  sweetest  flowers ; 
From  darkest  pages  happiest  lessons  read. 

Here  are  no  youthful  longings  unfulfilled ; 
No  aiiy  castles  sadly  brought  to  grief, 

And  weary  hearts  may  find  their  pulses  thrilled 
By  helpful  words  that  blazon  every  leaf. 

Is  it  so  strange  that  we  should  sometimes  plead 

This  final  volume  of  our  life  to  read  ? 


(118) 


RETROSPECTIVE. 


The  years  are  fleeting  fast,  O  thoughtless  one, 

And  is  your  task  wrought  out? 
Have  all  the  honors  of  a  life  been  won, — 

All  errors  put  to  rout? 

Was  your  existence  of  no  greater  worth 

Through  all  the  passing  hours, 
That  in  the  garden  which  you  tilled  on  earth, 

Sprang  up  more  weeds  than  flowers  ? 

Can  you  with  open  gaze  review  the  past, 

The  story  of  your  years, 
And  read  a  record  with  no  faults  o'ercast, 

A  memory  with  no  tears  ? 

Have  all  the  sunny  smiles  your  Fortune  brought, 

Your  little  world  improved  ? 
Were  care  and  sorrow  hid  with  kindly  thought 

To  spare  the  friend  you  loved  ? 

And  when  some  weary  comrade  ceased  to  run 

And  faltered  on  the  road, 
Did  you  do  all  a  brother  might  have  done 

To  ease  his  heavy  load  ? 


(119) 


Was  some  poor  creature  tempted — God  knows  how- 

To  leave  the  path  of  right, 
And  yours  the  hand  to  lift  her  from  the  slough, 

Or  crowd  her  out  of  sight  ? 

With  starving  souls  on  every  side  who  plead 

Only  for  crumbs,  no  more, 
Were  there  no  hungry  ones  you  might  have  fed 

From  out  your  bounteous  store  ? 

Creation  cannot  be  an  idle  freak 

Of  purposeless  caprice, 
And  Life  would  be  a  sorry  gift  and  weak, 

That  brought  not  joy  or  peace. 

Why  should  not  memory  as  your  sun  goes  down, 

Refresh  your  fading  sight 
With  scenes  that  bear  no  semblance  to  a  frown, 

And  pictures  of  delight? 

The  years  are  fleeting  fast,  O  thoughtless  one, 

Years  that  have  fled  for  aye, 
But  little  seeds  of  good  our  hands  have  sown 

Take  root  and  ne'er  decay. 


(120) 


CONTENTMENT. 


Possess  thy  soul  in  patience,  troubled  one : 

Thou  canst  not  if  thou  would,  have  perfect  peace ; 

A  restless  yearning  was  with  life  begun, 

That  will  not  give  the  struggling  soul  release, 

We  cherish  lofty  hopes ; — moments  there  are 
When  the  whole  world  would  hardly  satisfy 
The  greedy  gaze  of  an  ambitious  eye, 

That  longing,  looks  beyond  the  farthest  star. 

Such  moods  are  vanities  of  thought, — the  dreams 
That  ought  not  if  they  could,  be  e'er  fulfilled ; — 
Tainted  with  poison  that  has  been  distilled 

From  noxious  vapors  of  unhealthy  themes. 

God's  happiest  children  are  his  humblest  ones ; 
It  is  not  theirs  in  grief  and  shame  to  hide 
The  bitter  pangs  of  disappointed  pride, 

Though  each  be  distanced  in  the  race  he  runs. 

The  modest  goal  toward  which  their  feet  may  tend 

Charms  with  the  grace  simplicity  can  lend, 

And  sweet  humility  is  amply  blest 

With  the  sure  promise  of  a  helpful  rest. 

Not  in  a  life  of  wild  ambition  spent, 

Has  grown  a  fruitage  on  which  feeds  the  soul, 

But  in  the  lowlands  of  a  sweet  content 

Uplifted  here  and  there  with  flowery  knoll. 

The  monarch  clad  in  kingly  purple,  wears 

A  mask  that  hides  a  weary  load  of  cares ; 

While  all  his  gilded  dignity  of  rank 

Reflects  and  echoes  but  a  mocking  blank, 


(121) 


Nor  pomp  nor  pageantry  can  quite  conceal 
The  human  longings  that  his  heart  may  feel. 

Then  do  not  fret  the  weary  hours  away, 
Waiting  the  promise  of  a  brighter  day ; 
Thine  may  not  be  the  only  aching  heart ; 

Another,  more  than  thou,  is  weighted  down, — 
Given  a  load  to  carry  from  the  start, 

That  decked  its  bearer  with  a  martyr's  crown  : 
And  rest  thy  soul  in  peace  and  calm  content ; 

All  things  are  working  for  a  final  good, 
And  life  perhaps,  would  be  more  wisely  spent 

Were  all  its  hidden  purpose  understood. 


A  LIFE'S  RECORD. 


My  years  have  come  and  gone  ;  the  hours  have  flown 

That  marked  my  ideal  of  a  perfect  life, 

Yet  I  have  little  known  but  toil  and  strife 
That  left  the  toiler  weary  and  alone. 
Ah !  'tis  a  sorry  ending  to  the  dreams 
With  which  the  youthful  fancy  richly  teems ; 
Hurled  from  the  airy  heights  he  fain  had  trod, 
With  tired  feet  the  rudest  path  to  plod. 
My  joys  were  flavored  with  a  bitter-sweet ; 

The  fruit  so  full  of  promise  in  its  bloom, 
But  fell  to  dust  and  ashes  at  my  feet 

And  wrapped  me  round  in  clouds  of  doubt  and  gloom ; 
And,  saddest  thought,  to  learn,  alas,  too  late 
What  might  have  led  one  to  a  better  fate. 


(122) 


NOT  BOASTING,  BUT  HOPEFUL. 


'Tis  not  for  us  to  idly  boast 

Of  victories  won ; 
Another,  though  he  may  have  lost, 

Hath  braver  done. 
Ours  was  a  safer  path  to  go ; 
'Twas  his  to  meet  a  deadlier  foe, 
And  Heaven  alone  shall  ever  know 

The  worthier  one. 

We  fought  our  battle  from  a  height, 

On  vantage  ground, 
While  he,  poor  fellow,  in  the  night, 

Asleep  was  found. 

So  should  we  bear  our  honors  meek, 
Nor  vaunt  our  prowess  o'er  the  weak, 
But  rather  may  the  words  we  speak 

In  grace  abound. 

We  entered  for  the  race,  perhaps 

The  best  equipped; 
He  at  the  outset  many  laps 

Behind  had  slipped, 
Vet  need  we  cling  to  the  advance 
With  haughty  step  and  scornful  glance, 
Xor  deign  to  give  another  chance 

To  him  who  tripped  ? 

One  opes  his  Book  of  Life  at  first 

Without  a  blot ; 
Another  starts  almost  accurst, 

So  hard  his  lot ; 


Yet  patient  toil  and  honest  worth 
Can  quite  redeem  the  taints  of  birth, 
And  shape  a  better  life  on  earth 
Than  he  had  thought. 

Man's  lot  no  wisdom  of  the  schools 

Can  quite  decide; 
But  even-handed  justice  rules 

On  every  side, 

And  there  shall  come  a  better  fate 
To  those  whose  souls  in  patience  wait 
The  certain  good  that  soon  or  late 

The  gods  provide. 


To  THE  SKEPTIC. 


Hast  ever  thought,  O  thou  of  cynic  tongue, 

Who  aimest  shafts  with  such  envenomed  point, 
Inveighing  at  a  world  so  out  of  joint, 

That  all  of  Life  from  the  same  Hand  had  sprung — 

And  that  a  Master  Hand  ?     Cans't  thou  believe 
That  He  who  filled  our  lives  with  joy  and  light 
Has  not  within  his  grasp  a  power  and  might 

In  perfect  harmony  His  plans  to  weave  ? 

O  ye  of  little  faith  ? — Can  ye  not  trust, 

Reasoning  from  what  ye  know,  to  the  unknown  ? 

Wait  ye  in  patient  hope  because  ye  must, 
Nor  think  that  God  will  not  protect  his  own. 

Sublime  conceit,  that  rears  its  puny  thought 

Where  wisest  minds  have  but  too  feebly  taught ! 


(124) 


A  SUGGESTION. 


Carefully,  friend,  some  hearts  are  very  sore 

And  quiver  at  the  lightest  blow  or  touch; 

Is  it,  then,  asking  of  you  quite  too  much, 
That  you  should  speak  your  careless  words  no  more  V 
See  how  a  sad  life  feeds  on  crumbs  of  Hope 

And  how  it  starves  amid  a  cold  disdain ; 
Note  how  in  solitude  the  soul  will  mope, 

Yet  won  by  kindness  to  its  joy  again ; 
And  kind  words  cost  so  little — while  a  smile 

Is  easier  born  than  scornful  word  or  frown, 
Yet  -half  the  world  seems  trying  all  the  while 

To  crowd  their  poorer,  weaker  neighbors  down. 
Oh !  strange  neglect  and  wof ul  lack  of  thought ; 
Was  this  the  lesson  that  the  Master  taught  ? 

Carefully,  friend,  it  may  be  yours  some  day 

To  hear  the  bitter  taunt,  the  heartless  sneer ; 

To  see  the.  friend  that  you  had  deemed  sincere, 
Turn  with  a  cruel  thoughtlessness  away. 
There  is  no  human  lot  so  fair  or  grand, 

That  may  not  crumble  into  baser  form  ; 
There  is  no  earthly  height  where  one  may  stand 

Safe  from  the  sweep  of  passing  blast  and  storm : 
For  your  own  sake,  then,  would  we  humbly  plead ; 

Bread  cast  upon  the  waters  is  not  lost, 
But  may  return  to  us,  and  richly  feed 

The  springs  of  life  that  suffering  would  exhaust. 
For  your  own  sake  as  well  as  for  the  race,    . 
Let  charity  your  life  and  conduct  grace. 


LIFE'S  MYSTERY. 


We  bid  our  friends  "Good-bye  ;" 
We  see  them  crossing  to  the  other  shore, 
And  though  we  shall  not  ever  greet  them  more, 

We  have  no  cause  to  sigh. 

We  dare  not  wish  them  back, 
For  there  is  rest,  and  here  a  weary  round 
Of  never  ending  care  that  knew  no  bound, 

Beset  them  on  their  track. 

Need  we  so  selfish  seem, 
That  we  can  stand  beside  the  open  grave 
Of  our  dear  friends  in  peaceful  sleep,  and  crave 

To  wake  them  from  their  dream  ? 

Is  Life  so  very  dear — 
So  richly  glowing  with  a  golden  sheen, 
That  we  would  longing  linger  on  the  scene 

And  wish  it  ever  near  ? 

Is  there  for  human  eyes, 
No  fairer  land  than  this  domain  of  ours; 
No  sweeter  music  or  more  fragrant  flowers, 

No  land  of  Paradise? 


(120) 


In  mystery  we  hope  ; 
The  path  into  the  future  is  so  dark, 
Our  thoughts  are  but  an  endless  "hush"  and  "hark", 

So  blindly  do  we  grope ; 

And  so  we  firmly  clasp 
The  little  treasure  we  have  learned  to  love, 
Rather  than  seek  for  that  we  know  not  of, 

So  far  beyond  our  grasp. 

Dear  friends  for  whom  we  grieve ; 
A  voice  the  soul  alone  can  understand, 
Is  telling  of  a  fairer,  better  land  ; 

We  listen  and  believe, 

With  firm  and  tender  trust, 
That  He  who  guards  this  life  from  day  to  day, 
And  tempers  kindly  every  earthly  way, 

Hereafter  will  be  just. 

O  mystery  unsolved, — 

How  long  e'er  human  prescience  reach  a  height ; 
From  which  to  see  by  what  decree  of  right 

God's  problems  are  evolved. 


A  SKELETON  IN  EVERY  CLOSET. 


As  lurked  of  old  the  fabled  wraith 

In  legend  dim, 
So  strides  in  every  human  path 

A  spectre  grim : 

As  if  a  weird,  unhallowed  sprite 
Had  crept  from  out  the  gloom  of  night 
To  exercise  by  ghostly  right, 

Its  solemn  whim. 

It  wears  the  form  of  shadowy  ghosts 

Of  mythic  woes ; 
It  numbers  with  its  legions  hosts 

Of  direst  foes ; 

It  strikes  its  terrors  on  the  great 
Alike  with  those  of  humbler  fate, 
And  travels  onward  at  a  rate 

No  mortal  knows. 

It  trifles  with  our  fondest  hopes 
And  mocks  in  scorn  ; 

In  gayest  hours  it  sits  and  mopes 
With  air  forlorn ; 

(128) 


It  cometh  like  a  thief  at  night 
And  scatters  an  unwholesome  blight 
That  clouds  our  vision  to  the  light 
Of  coming  dawn. 

It  shadows  all  our  petted  schemes 

Like  one  possessed ; 
It  harasses  our  nightly  dreams 
And  murders  rest ; 
It  fills  the  weary,  aching  head 
With  never  ending  fear  and  dread 
Of  things  unpleasant  done  or  said 
Which  we  detest. 

It  haunts  the  bonnie  bride  with  fear 

Of  coming  care ; 
It  whispers  in  the  bridegroom's  ear 

Of  toil  and  snare; 
It  drives  the  loving  parent  wild 
With  anxious  thought  of  wayward  child, 
Refusing  to  be  reconciled 

In  her  despair. 

And  though  we  place  no  welcome  chair, 
This  friend  to  greet, 

He  steals  upon  us  unaware 

And  takes  his  seat. 

And  when  we  fain  in  peace  would  sup, 

He  calls  some  horrid  vision  up 

That  gives  a  bitter  to  the  cup 

That  should  be  sweet 


There  comes  a  day  of  endless  shade, 

We  humbly  trust, 
When  ghosts  and  goblins  may  be  laid 

Like  forms  of  dust. 
And  haunted  man  so  long  oppressed 
With  hopeless  visions  of  unrest, 
Shall  sleep  the  sleep  assigned  the  blest, 
Among  the  just. 


OF  WHAT  AVAIL? 


How  human  life  repeats  an  oft  told  tale ; — 
For  some  rich  distant  port  we  set  our  sail, 
But  if  we  founder  and  the  voyage  fail, 
Of  what  avail? 

Of  what  avail  the  glowing  dreams  of  youth, 
If  they  must  realize  in  forms  uncouth, 
While  all  fulfilment  in  a  joyous  truth, 
They  lack  forsooth  ? 

Of  what  avail  a  man's  ambitious  pride, 

Towering  above  all  other  aims  beside, 

If,  at  the  last,  its  ghost  sits  by  his  side, 

But  to  deride  ? 


(130) 


Of  what  avail  the  scholar's  cultured  thought ; — 
The  artist's  skill  to  fine  perfection  brought, 
If  all  the  beauty  that  their  gifts  have  wrought, 
31  ay  come  to  naught? 

Of  what  avail  the  maiden's  dream  of  hope, 
Cast  in  the  light  of  Love's  bright  horoscope, 
If  she  be  left  with  powers  beyond  her  scope, 
Alone  to  cope  ? 

Of  what  avail?  when  every  passing  day 
Takes  with  a  cruel  hand  some  friend  away, 
Whom  we  could  earnest  wish  might  ever  stay 
To  cheer  our  way. 

Of  what  avail !  Mysterious  refrain ; 
The  heart  may  echo  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
But  never  quite  this  mystery  explain 
To  human  ken. 

We  cry  "of  what  avail,"  because  wre  must ; 
We  stand  in  doubting,  even  while  we  trust, 
Yet  somehow  feel  that  to  His  child  of  dust 
God  will  be  just. 


VAIN  GLORY. 

I— CORINTHIANS  X— 12. 


I  gloried  in  my  strength, 
And  never  dreamed  that  my  poor  human  will 
Could  weaken  in  its  mastery  of  ill 

And  yield  the  fight  at  length: 

And  men,  I  knew,  were  blind  ; 
But  I,  poor  fool,  presumed  with  impious  thought, 
That  I  of  some  diviner  clay  was  wrought, 

With  gifts  above  my  kind. 

And  so  I  dared  my  fate, 
And  placed  no  barrier  in  the  tempter's  way, 
To  keep  my  stumbling  feet  from  going  astray, 

Till  came  an  hour  too  late : 

An  hour  of  conscious  sin  ; 

When  tjie  sick  heart  would  fain  its  errors  cease, 
In  piteous  longing  for  an  hour  of  peace 

To  quell  the  storm  within. 

O !  ye  conceited  souls, 

Who  proudly  boast  of  an  all  conquering  power 
To  stem  Life's  current  in  that  fearful  hour 

When  madly  swift  it  rolls. 

Your  strength  is  but  a  boast, 
And  all  your  vaunted  panoply  of  might 
Availeth  little  on  that  dreadful  night 

That  finds  you  tempest-tossed. 


OUR  WORLD. 


Our  world  seems  very  fair  to  Fortune's  few  ; 

But  there  are  struggling  souls  on  every  side 

At  whom  Existence  seems  but  to  deride 
With  subtle  pictures  of  deceptive  hue. 
Upon  the  title  page  of  Youth's  fair  morn 

Is  read  Hope's  promise  of  a  flattering  tale, 
A  promise,  but  alas,  too  often  born 

Of  fantasies  that  fade  and  lights  that  pale. 
As  some  bright  sunrise  all  aglow  with  cheer, 

Melts  into  shadow,  gathering  mist  and  gloom, 
So  do  Life's  morning  visions  disappear, 

Lost  in  the  clouds  of  unrelenting  doom. 
The  World  is  fair,  but  all  too  sadly  true, — 
It  seemeth  fair  but  to  a  favored  few. 

Deal  gently  then,  O  ye  of  happier  lot, 

With  those  whose  sun  has  set  in  hopeless  night ; 
Fill  with  your  cheery  voice  and  presence  bright, 

Each  sadly-silent,  sorrow-darkened  spot. 

The  world  to  some  is  very  hard  indeed ; 

Even  so  hard  that  they  have  bowed  the  head, 
And  craved  the  blissful  quiet  of  the  dead 

To  still  the  griefs  that  caused  their  hearts  to  bleed. 

Yet  they,  as  we,  live  by  divinest  right; 

For  them,  no  less  than  us,  are  Earth's  fair  flowers ; 

But  that  a  fickle  fortune  chose  to  blight 

The  buds  that  decked  the  Spring-time  of  their  hours. 

Be  such  the  kindly  guise  we  daily  wear, 

That  all  the  world  shall  seem  to  all  most  fair. 


i  '.» 


CHRISTMAS  RHYMES. 


1 — CHRISTMAS  MUSINGS. 
2 — CHRISTMAS  GREETING. 
3 — CHRISTMAS  REMEMBRANCE. 
4 — CHRISTMAS  BELLS. 


(134) 


CHRISTMAS   MUSINGS. 


What  cheer  shall  my  Holiday  greeting  unfold 
For  the  welcome  of  those  that  are  dear  ? 
Shall  I  echo  the  fond  Merry  Christmas  of  old, —  - 
For  its  castles  in  Spain  with  their  treasures  of  gold, 
And  for  happiness  more  than  a  life-time  could  hold, 
That  might  almost  bring  Paradise  near  ? 

Shall  I  ring  out  the  changes  which  retrospect  brings 

From  the  slumbers  of  far-away  Youth, — 
Shall  I  startle  the  dreams  to  which  Memory  clings, 
While  I  summon  the  beautiful  beings  with  wings 
Who  shall  chant  the  quaint  ballads  that  Santa-Glaus  sings, 
Till  they  glow  with  the  beauty  of  Truth  ? 

Ah !  those  castles  in  Spain ;  would  they  rise  at  my  call, 
Though  it  sprang  from  my  heart's  fondest  thought ; 

Farewell — such  illusions — forever  and  all ; 

For  Hope's  proudest  structures  will  crumble  and  fall 

And  leave  but  a  desolate  ruin  of  wall 

That  will  shelter  but  little  or  naught. 

Idle  fancies,  perhaps — these  weak  wishes  of  mine  ; 

Almost  seeming  to  mock  and  to  jeer : 
And  I  sometimes  must  think  as  1  scan  through  the  line, 
So  empty  in  fact  though  it  read  ne'er  so  fine, 
That  greetings  like  these  hold  more  shadow  than  shine, 

And  darken  much  more  than  they  cheer. 


(135) 


Yet  true  hearts  throb  in  tune  with  the  holiday  chimes, 

And  the  spirit  grows  blithesome  and  clear, 
While  the  soul  in  such  seasons  has  glimpses  at  times 
Of  the  sunniest  visions  from  Orient  climes, 
And  the  color  of  Hope  tints  my  lack-a-day  rhymes 
With  an  ardor  both  warm  and  sincere. 

There  are  blessings  that  ride  on  the  wings  of  intent, 

That  will  perf ume  the  air  as  they  fly ; 
And  though  ne'er  may  develop  the  wish  that  was  sent, 
Yet  I  fancy  it  carried  sweet  rest  as  it  went, 
And  increased  the  world's  measure  of  joy  and  content, 
With  a  richness  that  wealth  cannot  buy. 

And  I  cherish  the  fiction  that  childhood  has  taught, 

As  a  charm  that  is  real  and  true; 
And  I  wish  the  old  wishes  of  juvenile  thought, 
With  their  visions  of  hope  and  of  happiness  fraught, 
With  an  added  desire  from  experience  bought, 

That  they  somehow  may  blossom  anew. 

Then  I  voice  you  again  the  old  cheer,  if  you  please, 

That  my  holiday  musings  inspire, 
With  a  hope  that  the  blessings  of  Life,  (and  in  these 
I  include  all  the  luck  that  good-fortune  decrees,) 
May  surround  you  and  yours  with  a  comfort  and  ease 

That  the  happiest  heart  could  desire. 


(13(5) 


CHRISTMAS  GREETING. 


May  all  the  joys  of  Christmas-tide  be  thine 
Upon  this  festal  day,  ()  friend  of  mine  ; — 

May  sunny  smiles  be  thine  the  livelong  day ; 
And  lightened  heart 
A  charm  impart 
To  turn  aside  the  shadows  from  the  way. 

Banish  this  day  all  tiring  toil  and  care ; 
Forget  Life's  crosses  with  their  weary  wear ; — 
Remember  only  the  kind  promise  given 
That  far-off  day, 
In  land  away, 
Of  the  bright  dream  which  pictures  to  us  Heaven. 

For  "Peace  on  Earth"  can  only  be  complete 
\Vhen  human  hearts  find  rest  serene  and  sweet, 

And  human  love  its  loftiest  height  has  reached, 
And  not  till  then 
"Good  will  to  men" 
May  bear  the  fruitage  long-for  hoped  and  preached. 

And  in  our  quiet  thought  and  clearer  mood, 
With  Life's  true  lessons  better  understood, 

The  Christmas  teaching  hints  the  happier  way : 
$o  let  us  strive 
To  keep  alive 
The  sweet  and  tender  joys  of  Christmas  Day. 


Accept  my  greeting  then,  O  friend  of  mine  ; 
May  all  the  joys  of  Christmas-tide  be  thine : — 

The  Wealth  of  health,  and  friends  and  bounteous  cheer ; 
And  rich  increase 
Of  Hope  and  Peace, 
Make  glad  each  moment  of  the  coming  year. 


CHRISTMAS  REMEMBRANCE. 


Bathed  in  the  sunshine  of  perennial  youth 

And  brightening  all  her  pathway  with  her  smile, 
My  friend  exemplifies  the  welcome  truth 

That  angels  have  not  quite  gone  out  of  style. 
The  march  of  Time,  with  more  than  usual  grace, 

Has  kindly  passed  this  cheerful  woman  by; 
Her  years  are  not  recorded  in  her  face 

And  brightly  beams  the  twinkle  in  her  eye. 

And  on  this  Christmas  as  I  count  my  friends — 

Fewer,  alas,  with  Time's  incessant  wear, 
My  thought  goes  out  to  one  whose  greeting  lends 

An  inspiration  to  an  hour  of  care. 
Long  may  the  gladness  of  her  life  flow  on, 

And  green  her  memory  last  through  all  the  years, 
Whose  cheerful  presence  bids  dull  care  begone 

And  from  whose  heart  is  born  more  smiles  than  tears. 


(1.38) 


CHRISTMAS  BELLS. 


Ah !  yes,  I  hear  them 

Ringing  in  many  ears  with  tones  of  gladness ; 
I  also  hear  the  piteous  moans  of  sadness 

That  echo  near  them. 

Not  all  the  pealing 

Of  steepled  bells  in  merriest  music  chiming, 
Nor  Christmas  carols  e'er  so  gaily  rhyming 

Can  still  the  feeling, 

That  in  Life's  battle, 

God's  children  lead  forlornest  hopes  in  sorrow, 
With  hearts  that  have  no  thought  on  Christmas  morrow, 

For  toy  or  rattle. 

Too  sadly  often 

There  lurks  a  bitter  grief  or  disappointment, 
Some  heartache  that  no  healing  wine  or  ointment 

Can  soothe  or  soften ; 

And  how  can  greeting 

Come  to  a  soul  like  this  except  in  mocking — 
When  human  ills  and  griefs  are  constant  knocking 

With  angry  beating  ? 


(139) 


Yet  Life  can  brighten, 

And  Hope  in  many  a  weary  heart  shall  linger, 
If  but  the  gentle  touch  of  friendly  finger 

Its  load  shall  lighten  ; 

And  there  come  voices — 
Even  no  more  than  Christmas  carols  singing, 
Whose  merry  chimes  in  cheery  echoes  ringing, 

Some  heart  rejoices. 

Then  ring  your  measure, 

For  longing  ears  may  catch  the  sound  and  listen, 
And  sorrow-moistened  eyes  perchance  may  glisten 

With  tears  of  pleasure. 

Ring  out  your  story — 

"Glory  to  God  on  High" — revere  none  other, 
Let  "Peace  on  earth  and  good  will  to  our  brother" 

Fulfil  His  glory. 


(140) 


(HI) 


MEMORIAL  TRIBUTES. 


(H2) 


To  JOHN  H.  GALLIGAN. 

SUGGESTED    BY    READING    ONE    OF    HIS    POEMS. 


Not  for  one  brief  moment  only  rang  the  measure  of  his 

lay, 
But  the  echoes  of  the  minstrel's  song  are  in  our  thoughts 

to-day, 

And  we  catch  the  sober  tenderness  that  rambles  through 
his  strain, — 

All  the  more  and  sadly  tender — his  last  lingering  refrain. 

And  we  scan  again  the  picture  that  his  artist  fancy  drew, 
And  we  trace  the  joyous  moments  as  he  lived  his  child- 
hood through, 

And  the  youth  who  gave  fair  promise  of  a  fairer  yet  to  be 
When  the  growth   of   soberer  manhood  cut  the  earlier 
tendrils  free, — 

And  "those  ripened  days  of  manhood,  rich  and  full  with 

varied  lore," 
Gilded  bright  with  gorgeous  color  in  the  clustering  fruit 

they  bore, 
As  the    promised  wealth  of   boyhood    found    fulfilment 

strong  and  true 
In    a    host    of   welcome    virtues,  blossoming   each    day 

anew. 

Loyally  thy  friends  have  loved  thee,  with  a  loyalty  of 
pri.de, 

Proudly  boasted  of  thy  charity  as  generous  and  wide ; 

Told  thy  praises  with  a  tireless  zeal,  and  with  no  flatter- 
ing tongue, 

But  tone  of  true  sincerity,  thy  rich  endowments  sung. 


But  sad  irony  of  Destiny,  which  blights  with    ruthless 

touch, 
Fondest   hopes   that   dwell   so   bright   in   thought,  and 

promise  us  so  much, 
How  the  strength  of   sturdiest  manhood   melts   in   thy 

relentless  grasp 
And  the  bands,  howe'er  so  strongly  locked  with  earthly 

ties,  unclasp. 

Ah,  that  "Destiny  that  shapes  our  ends,  rough  hew  them 

as  we  will,"- 
Who  can  say  the  lot  it  brings  to  man  shall  work  for  good 

or  ill? 
While  the  fate  that  seemed  so  cruel  to  the  ken  of  earthly 

eyes 
May,  through  a  diviner  vision,  prove  an  angel  in  disguise. 

Spared  our  friend  the  withering  wear  of  woes  that  four- 
score years  might  bring  ; 

Spared  the  sad  and  painful  retrospect  that  Winter  gleans 
from  Spring ; 

Spared  the  whitened  locks,  the  drooping  head,  the  loneli- 
ness of  years, 

And  in  their  stead  youth's  heritage  of  friendship  bathed 
in  tears. 

Poets  chant  of  ripe  old  age  and  all  the  honor  which  it 

brings, 

But  my  reason  often  questions  if  the  poet  rightly  sings ; 
For   the   years  bring  added  conflicts,  leaving  ugly  scars 

of  strife, 
Which  our  love  would  gladly  banish  from  the  story  of  a 

life. 


To  AX  HONORED  CITIZEN. — B.  W. 


A  kind  and  worthy  man  has  dropped  to  rest, 

Who  served  his  God  in  truest  Christian  way ; — 

Not  often  opening  wide  his  lips  to  pray, 
Kut  hourly  giving  to  the  world  his  best. 
Through  all  the  years  almost  beyond  recall, 

AValked  he  in  quiet  way  his  Duty's  round, 
Nor  swerved  to  right  or  left  at  any  call 

Whose  tones  were  false  or  of  uncertain  sound. 
How  little  known  and  still  less  understood — 

A  heart  that  kindles  slow  with  friendly  fire, 
Because  forsooth  an  unimpassioned  mood 

Had  been  a  birthright  from  a  distant  sire ! 
And  thou — O  silent  friend — in  life  almost 

As  silent  as  the  space  that  bounds  thee  now  ; 
There  crowds  upon  our  troubled  thoughts  a  host 

Of  Christian  deeds,  though  lacking  Christian  vow. 
-Well  done,  thou  good  and  faithful  one" — is  thine  ; — 

A  heritage  for  those  whose  hearts  may  bleed  ; 
Nor  towering  stone  nor  epitaph  so  fine 

Can  speak  so  well  the  comfort  that  we  need. 
Peaceful  thy  sleep  must  be  whose  many  days 
So  little  jostled  with  the  world's  rough  ways. 


10  (145) 


A  FRIEXDLY  AND  OFFICIAL  TRIBUTE  AT  CITY  HALL. 
Hox.  H.  L.  C. 


"An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God ;" 

Thus  runs  my  thought,  nor  do  I  feel  inclined 

To  seek  expression  of  a  loftier  kind, 
To  praise  the  friend  now  resting  'neath  the  sod, 
'T would  ill  become  one  who  has  known  him  well, 

To  deck  with  fulsome  flattery  his  grave ; 
When  simple  mention  of  his  name  should  tell 

In  quick  response,  the  compliments  we  crave. 
A  manly,  open  hand,  that  never  failed 

To  grasp  its  duty,  be  it  stern  or  mild ; 
A  stout,  courageous  heart  that  never  quailed, 

And  yet,  withal,  as  tender  as  a  child. 
He  was  my  friend — this  man,  and  I  may  dare 

To  say  to  others — strangers,  it  may  be, — 
That  there  are  many  we  could  better  spare, 

And  few,  alas,  from  weaknesses  more  free. 
Scan  through  his  record  made  within  these  walls, — 

Time  to  an  oath  not  for  one  hour  forgot, 
And  eye  of  keenest  'searching  never  falls 

Upon  a  page  or  line  that  marks  a  blot. 
Remembering  him  whose  life  has  passed  away, 

And  saddened  by  the  thoughts  that  memories  lend, 
Than  this,  no  higher  tribute  can  I  pay — 

"A  just  official,  citizen  and  friend." 


(l-Ki) 


To  A  WIFE  AND  MOTHER. 


Ended  the  day  dreams  horn  of  hoped  for  joys ; 

Sundered  beyond  restore  Life's  fairest  plan  ; 
Only  fond  memories  left  to  guard  her  boys 

And  lift  the  shadows  from  a  lonely  man. 

I  may  not  trust  my  feeble  line  to  speak 

The  boon  of  comfort  that  the  heart  most  needs ; 
Language  is  mockery  and  all  too  weak 

To  heal  the  wound  that  so  profusely  bleeds. 
But  I  may  give  a  word  of  earnest  praise, 

Perchance  to  temper  sorrow's  cup  with  pride, 
And  make  less  grievous  in  the  coming  days, 

The  saddened  thoughts  that  linger  and  abide. 
It  seems  a  cruel  hand  that  reaches  out 

To  quench  the  brightness  of  a  happy  home; — 
Goodness  Divine  seems  almost  turned  about, 

As  seeking  in  unlovely  paths  to  roam. 
If  there  be  any  who  should  wear  the  crown, 

O  wife  and  mother  who  have  served  your  due, 
When  you  have  laid  your  weary  burden  down, 

Surely  the  richest  meed  should  come  to  you. 
They  cannot  hold  her  memory  too  dear, 

For  whom  her  love  and  life  were  freely  given, 
And  dreams  of  Heaven  more  real  are  and  near, 

Since  she  has  passed  from  sunlight  into  even. 


We  scatter  flowers  upon  the  grassy  mound 

That  only  hides  from  sight  a  lifeless  form, 
As  if  we  somehow  thus  had  placed  around 

A  sheltering  blessing  from  the  blast  and  storm ; 
But  if  the  closed  and  silent  lips  could  speak,^ 

How  slight  the  faith  one  needs  but  to  believe 
That  she  who  rests  beneath  the  daisies  meek 

Would  beg  your  loving  thought  for  those  that  grieve. 
O  friends  of  those  who  mourn,  be  very  kind, 

()  sympathizing  heart,  give  of  your  best ; 
The  greatest  boon  humanity  shall  find, 

Is  needed  as  its  dear  ones  drop  to  rest. 

"To  rest" — Ah,  yes ; — Be  grateful  for  the  thought, 
A  victory  gained  at  last  with  cruel  odds ; 

Weak  from  the  standard  of  earth's  battles  fought; — 
Strong  in  her  soul's  approval  and  her  God's. 


To  AN  OLD  SCHOOLMATE. 


Old  friend,  though  I  have  not  looked  on  thy  face 

For  many  a  year,  yet  T  may  not  forget 
That  through  thy  boyhood  I  can  easy  trace 

The  lines  wherein  our  youthful  friendships  met. 
I  mind  me  not  the  cruel  tales  they  told 

Of  mis-spent  hours  and  manhood's  wasted  prime, 
The  dross  I  saw  not  —  but  I  knew  the  gold 

Of  honest  boyhood  in  the  olden  time. 
And  if  when  sterner  fights  of  manhood  pressed 

With  heavy  weight,  they  dragged  thy  foot-steps  down, 
'Tis  not  for  me  to  pose  in  ease  and  rest 

And  pass  upon  thy  frailties  with  a  frown. 
I  knew  thee  as  a  frank  and  generous  lad, 

Whose  heart  was  open  and  whose  friendship  true, 
And  clustering  memories  not  unkind  nor  sad 

Have  called  to  mind  my  boyhood's  hours  anew. 

Thy  voyage  is  over  ;  'tis  the  old,  old  tale  — 
A  fate-bound  mortal  on  a  storm-tossed  sea  ; 

And  if  some  treacherous  reef  or  blasting  gale 
Shall  end  in  wreck  youth's  fairest  prophecy, 

'Tis  but  the  common  lot  of  all,  I  ween— 

Life's  constant  struggles  with  scant  joys  between  ; 


i  10 


And  one  by  happy  chance  to-day  may  rise, 

Yet  on  the  morrow  helplessly  he  lies. 

As  one  may  loftily  his  virtues  boast, 

Who — Heaven  forgive  him — needs  forgiveness  most, 

While  humble  souls  who  little  homage  crave, 

Have  walked  through  life  unnoticed,  to  the  grave. 

Thank  Providence  that  in  our  final  rest, 

The  meekest  shares  his  chances  with  the  best. 


To  AX  OLD  SCHOOLMATE. — C.  A.  M. 


Swift  is  the  flight  of  Time!  The  years  slip  by; 

Youth's  dearest  comrades  pass  ficm  thought  and  sight, 
Till  some  brief  printed  line  shall  catch  the  eye 

And  bring  long-hidden  memories  to  light. 
How  the  old  scenes  come  trooping  through  the  brain  ; 

The  youthful  sports  that  made  our  sum  of  joys  ; 
The  roguish  pranks  revived  and  lived  again, 

And  thou,  true  fiiend,  the  prince  among  the  boys. 

In  retrospect  I  hold  thy  memory  dear, 

And  more  than  formal  tribute  mayst  thou  claim ; 
For  those  who  knew  thee  read  a  record  clear 

And  loved  an  honored  and  respected  name. 
Dear  friend  and  schoolmate  of  the  olden  time, 

My  boyish  ideal  of  the  strong  and  brave, 
With  sorrowing  speech  and  sadly-halting  rhyme, 

1  plant  this  flower  of  friendship  at  thy  grave. 


(150) 


OP  A  FRIEND    AND  CLASSMATE. 


A  charishe  1  dream  of  Faith  and  Hope  and  Love ! 

A  few  brief  years  of  earth's  enjoyment  given  ! 
A  sweet  communion  with  her  God  above ! 

A  saintly  spirit  upward  flown  to  Heaven. 

"A  dream  of  faith ;"  aye,  more  than  any  dream ; 

More  clearly  than  through  any  fleeting  vision, 
Shone  her  sweet  trust  that  made  the  Present  seem 

But  as  a  preluie  to  a  world  Elysian. 

And  patient  "hopes"'  and  dearest  "loves;" — were  these 
But  only  dreams  that  mocked  in  cruel  scorning, 

Or  were  they  rather  buds  of  glad  hearts-ease, 
To  bloom  in  fulness  on  the  Heavenly  morning? 

E'en  her  sweet  fancies  wore  the  garb  of  Truth, 
!So  vividly  shone  forth  each  bright  ideal, 

And  strengthened  by  the  gladsome  tone  of  Youth, 
Her  Faith  and  Hope  and  Love  were  grandly  real. 

Her  life  was  not  a  field  of  passions  slain, 
Or  daily  combating  with  things  contested  ; 

Only  the  pure  in  heart  could  e'er  attain 

Unto  the  heights  on  which  her  spirit  rested. 


(151) 


Ye  blinded  souls  who  only  look  for  saints 

Among  the  relics  of  the  far-off  ages, 
This  sweet,  young  life  a  finer  picture  paints, 

Than  decks  the  records  of  your  wisest  sages. 

And  as  the  weary  days  and  years  pass  on, 

And  Time  shall  rest  its  shadowy  gloom  more  lightly ; 

Shall  bid  the  freshness  of  our  grief  be  gone, 

And  tinge  the  remnant  of  our  life  more  brightly, 

Dear,  precious  thoughts  may  come,  though  sad,  yet  sweet, 
Illumined  by  the  light  thou  sheddest  o'er  them, 

That,  lovingly,  may  guard  our  halting  feet 

From  dangerous  paths  that  ever  lie  before  them. 

And  if  the  Christian  hope  proves  not  a  dream, 

But  finds  fruition  in  a  realm  supernal, 
Another  world  of  Life  shall  brightly  gleam 

With  all  the  friendship  of  a  Love  eternal. 

Farewell,  dear  friend  !  thou  canst  not  but  fare  well, 
Whose  life  was  such  a  brave  and  patient  story, 

Nor  could  the  proudest  record  better  tell 
The  grand  fulfilment  of  our  Father's  glory. 


(15*) 


To    THE    MEMORY    OF    PRIVATE    H.  A.  WILLIAMS,  AT 
A  RECEPTION  GIVEN  BATTERY  F. 


Halt  for  a  moment  in  your  hour  of  cheer : 
Summon  a  comrade  from  the  shadow-land  : 

Grant  him  a  welcome  at  your  banquet  here 
And  greet  him  with  fraternal  heart  and  hand. 

He  shared  your  crosses, — let  him  wear  the  Crown 
That  well  bedecks  the  martyrs'  sainted  roll, 

And  as  you  write  your  names  of  heroes  down, 
Place  his  in  golden  letters  on  the  scroll. 

Count  not  the  soldier  fallen  at  his  post, 

Less  near  or  dear  than  those  whom  Fate  has  spared, 
For  who  can  reckon  which  deserveth  most, 

Where  those  who  lived  or  died  alike  have  dared  ? 

But  as  our  plaudits  fill  your  hearts  with  pride 
For  task  accomplished,  and  for  duty  done, 

One  moment  lay  your  pleasantry  aside 

For  him  whose  earthly  honors  all  are  won. 

And  kindly  pledge  the  absent  one  to-night 
Whose  voice  is  sadly  silent  at  your  call, 

A  martyr  to  the  loftiest  dream  of  right, 
For  he  who  gives  his  life  has  given  all. 


(153) 


To  THK  LOCAL  PHILOSOPHER. 


What  will  the  verdict  be  when  we  pass  on  ? 

He  must  indeed  be  curiously  wrought, 

Who  never  in  his  time  has  given  thought 
To  what  report  might  say  when  he  is  gone  ; — 
Whether  it  blazon  to  the  world  his  faults, 

Or,  worse, — may  damn  with  feeble,  unearned  praise, 
Or  if  in  love  his  memory  exalts 

In  kind  regard  for  all  his  better  ways. 
Will  men  forgive  our  errors  all  these  years, 

Which  we,  alas,  have  mourned  not  less  than  they, 
And  standing  by  our  graves,  plead  with  their  tears 

That  Life's  unworthier  part  be  hid  away  ? 
It  may  be  little  to  the  lifeless  dust 

Whether  they  speak  of  us  in  praise  or  blame; 
Yet  who  so  base,  that  would  not  rather  trust 

Virtue  than  vices,  to  protect  his  name. 
Let  those  who  write  our  epitaph  but  tell 
Only  the  work  that  we  accomplished  well, 
And  for  the  ken  of  those  who  knew  us  not, 
Something  like  this  upon  our  tombstone  jot — 


(154) 


"Here  lies  our  Local  Phil.,  who  at  its  best, 

Found  his  poor  lot  a  wearisome  unrest ; 

Like  all  mortality  denied  a  voice 

To  make  of  life  or  nothingness  his  choice, 

He  struck  this  sphere  at  Destiny's  command, 

A  feeble  traveler  in  a  hostile  land. 

For  there  are  some  who  drift  upon  this  shore 

That  fatten  on  Life's  coarse  turmoil  and  roar ; 

So  strongly  armed  and  splendidly  equipped, 

The  subtlest  snares  have  never  fouled  or  tripped ; 

Another  finds  his  chief  inheritance 

The  poverty  of  weakness  and  mischance, 

And  meeting  Fortune  as  a  bitter  foe, 

Will  yield  the  contest  scarcely  with  a  blow. 

The  sleeper  here,  judging  from  all  report, 

Trained  in  the  legions  of  the  weaker  sort  ; 

In  reading  Fate,  interpreting  the  worst, 

He  owned  to  being  beaten  from  the  first ; 

Then  spare  unkindly  criticism,  friend, 

On  one  who  did  but  little  worth  pretend ; 

Let  not  thy  tongue  in  blame  or  censure  wag, 

That  he  hath  tripped  on  many  a  treach'rous  snag, 

But  rather  wonder  that  he  struggled  through, 

Keeping  the  brighter  side  so  much  in  view, 

And  speak  your  best  of  this  defenceless  dust ; 

Take  his  poor  memory  in  kindly  trust ; 

Forgive,  and  if  within  your  power,  forget 

The  debts  he  paid  in  paying  Nature's  debt." 


(155) 


Ah !  we  do  care  for  words  of  good  or  ill ; 

We  wear  a  stubborn  front  from  day  to  day, 

Brushing  with  free  and  careless  hand  away, 
The  world's  regard  as  if  it  were  but  nil. 
But  there  shall  come  an  hour,  thou  proudest  one, 

When  thou  and  pride  alike  are  lying  low ; 
And  when  thine  earthly  course  is  nearly  run, 

Thou  canst  not  answer  sympathy  with  "Xo," 
But  earnest  reaching  forth  with  helpless  hands, 

All  torn  and  bleeding  in  a  hopeless  strife, 
Confess  the  need  of  sympathetic  bands 

To  tie  the  sundered  ligaments  of  Life. 
Be  this  the  lesson  that  our  verse  shall  teach — 
That  human  love  shall  higher  levels  reach. 


(156) 


To  AX  OLD  MUSICAL  FRIEND. — J.  N. 


Another  old  campaigner  gone  to  rest ; 

And  though  he  blazoned  not  the  roll  of  fame, 
Yet  would  that  we  might  write  against  our  name 
This  record  from  his  life — "he  did  his  best." 
His  work  was  builded  better  than  he  knew; 
Long  years  of  tender  memories  defend 
The  modest  soldier,  citizen  and  friend, 
In  all  that  makes  a  noble  manhood  true. 
His  work  is  done : — no  more  the  martial  beat 
Which  rang  with  truest  measure  through  the  street, 
(A  fitting  echo  to  his  generous  heart,) 
Shall  old-time  thoughts  and  memories  impart. 
Another  hand  than  his  has  beat  the  roll 
And  placed  our  comrade  on  a  new  patrol. 


(157) 


RHYMES  FOR  THE  OCCASION 


1 — THE  OLD  SCHOOL  ST.  SCHOOL. 

2 — AT  AN  ALDERMANIC  SUPPER. 

3 — FOR  A  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

4 — AT  A  SILVER  WEDDING. 

5 — MEMORIAL  DAY,  1884. 

6 — MEMORIAL  DAY,  1894. 

7 — DEDICATION  HIGH  SCHOOL  BUILDING. 

8 — TAUNTON'S  250TH  ANNIVERSARY. 


(158) 


THE  OLD  SCHOOL  ST.  SCHOOL. 


•'And  theu  the  whiuiug  school-boy,"  says  the  bard, 
With  satchel  and  with  shining  morning  face, 
Creeping  like  snail,  unwillingly  to  school." 

— Shakespeare's  Seven  Ages 


Ah !  well,  perhaps  't  were  so  in  Shakespeare's  day, 

When  but  a  little  learning  did  suffice 

And  ignorance  was  bliss  in  mocking  guise, 
While  education  loitered  on  the  way: 
It  might  have  been  when  only  royal  rank 

Monopolized  the  learning  of  the  land, 
And  when  the  peasant's  poor  ambition  shrank 

Beneath  the  pressure  of  a  tyrant's  hand — 
When  might  was  right,  and  liberty  unknown, 

And  human  birthright  was  akin  to  Fate, 
Enriching  him  who  sat  upon  a  throne, 

And  bidding  Fortune's  humbler  vassals  wait, 
Then  might  the  boy,  as  sang  the  bard  of  yore, 

Creep  h'ke  the  snail  unwillingly  to  school, 
And  little  reck  if  well-earned  laurels  wore, 

Or  perched  the  victim  on  a  dunce's  stool. 


(159) 


I  speak  the  story  of  a  kinder  age, 

And  ring  the  changes  of  a  clearer  chime ; 
With  free  and  certain  hand  I  turn  the  page 

That  holds  the  record  of  a  happier  time. 
No  whining  schoolboy  greets  my  vision  now ; 

The  shining  morning  face  perchance  T  see, 
But  with  a  hopeful  crown  upon  the  brow 

That  banishes  the  word  "unwillingly." 
The  nineteenth-century  village  lad  may  mount 
A  higher  pinnacle  than  duke  or  count; 
The  little  lass  who  sits  so  primly  there, 
May  in  the  years  adorn  the  White  House  chair ; 
There  is  no  limit  to  the  mete  or  bound 
That  hedges  earnest,  honest  worth  around  ; 
But  these  are  homilies  so  often  told, 
That  my  poor  verse  no  newer  truths  unfold, 
And  I  may  be  excused  for  turning  back 
Just  for  one  moment  from  the  beaten  track. 

A  picture  moves  before  me  from  the  Past, 
That  seems  to  hold  its  colors  strong  and  fast — 
A  sketch  from  real  life  which  marks  the  plot 
That  represents  the  average  human  lot, 
And  could  I  show  these  girls  and  boys  to-day, 
Wherein  their  feet  may  walk  on  Life's  highway  ; 
What  heights  they  may  attain  by  earnest  toil, 
Or  by  neglect  their  youth's  fair  promise  spoil  ; 
If  I  might  hope  some  courage  to  inspire, 
And  lift  their  youthful  aspirations  higher, 
This  simple  picture  offered  to  your  view 
Is  proof  of  what  the  years  may  bring  to  you ; 


(100) 


For  all  too  quick  must  come  your  hour  of  care, 
And  school- day  life  is  gone  ere  you're  aware : 
"So  soon  the  boy  a  youth,  the  youth  a  man, 
Eager  to  run  the  raca  his  father  ran." 
Well  for  the  youth  if  he  shall  win  the  race 
Cnsullied  by  dishonor  and  disgrace  ; 
And  this  my  picture  shows  a  record  fair 
Within  the  reach  of  every  one  to  share. 

And,  first,  the  school-boy — not  the  whining  youth 

That  Shakespeare  sends  us  down  in  garb  uncouth, 

But  brimming  full  with  all  the  life  and  joy 

Which  mark  your  healthy,  happy,  ideal  boy; 

With  just  enough  of  mischief  in  his  mix 

To  perpetrate  the  latest  school-boy  tricks. 

For  his  few  faults  let  charity  be  broad ; 

A  perfect  boy  is  apt  to  prove  a  fraud. 

And  this  was  one,  it  cannot  be  denied, 

Whose  failings  largely  leaned  to  Virtue's  side. 

This  youth,  as  gathered  from  the  old  reports, 

Excelled  in  all  ths  boyish  games  and  sports ; 

His  quest  for  pleasure  was  a  genuine  one, 

And  gave  an  air  of  business  to  the  fun ; 

His  fishing  trips,  as  told  in  idle  while, 

Would  make  the  dullest-minded  listener  smile; 

His  love  of  ball  has  never  died  away, 

And  he'd  go  miles  to  see  a  game  to-day  ; 

While  often  do  I  hear  my  friend  recite 

His  boyish  escapades  with  keen  delight, 

Developing  this  fact  in  nature's  plan — 

The  manly  youth  lives  as  a  youthful  man. 


(161) 


But  hold,  and  let  a  few  years  intervene, 
And  lift  the  curtain  on  another  scene ; 
The  boy  has  said  "Good  Bye"  to  book  and  slate 
And  in  the  mart  of  business  chanced  his  fate  : — 
A  Main  street  merchant,  with  an  eye  for  gain, 
With  ample  capital — of  pluck  and  brain  : — 
Whose  days  of  toil  were  arduous  and  long 
And  labor  formed  the  burden  of  his  song. 
Now  comes  the  application  of  some  rule 
That  so  perplexed  his  faculties  at  school ; 
The  old  arithmetic,  despised  at  times, 
Now  aids  to  add  and  multiply  his  dunes, 
And  he  discovers — what  before  unknown, 
That  Education  is  the  poor  man's  throne. 

But  comes  the  sound  of  war — this  boy  had  fought 
The  mimic  warfare  of  an  urchin's  thought ; 
Had  charged  with  reckless  bravery  the  camp, 
Within  which  lay  entrenched  some  youthful  scamp ; 
In  paper  hat  and  armed  with  wooden  gun, 
Had  vanquished  infant  foemen,  one  by  one ; 
And,  Alexander-like,  had  vainly  sighed 
Because  earth's  battlefields  were  not  more  wide. 
Smile,  if  you  will,  at  childish  pastime  spent 
In  mock  parade  and  burlesque  armament; 
Laugh  at  the  boy  who  finds  his  keenest  sport 
Behind  the  ramparts  of  a  snow-clad  fort, 
But  read  the  story  of  your  School  street  boys 
Who  played  at  warfare  and  whose  guns  were  toys, 
And  then  your  country's  list  of  heroes  scan, 
Who  heard  the  war-cry  and  who  led  the  van, 


Then  lay  your  unkind  thought  or  sneer  away, 

And  save  your  laughter  for  another  day  : 

For  here  sat  heroes  of  the  truest  stamp, 

Heard  from  in  eveiy  battlefield  and  camp, 

And  foremost,  Freedom's  banner  to  defend, 

We  find  our  school-boy  and  our  merchant  friend. 

The  tale,  for  lack  of  time,  must  be  made  brief, 

And  rapid  turn  we  each  successive  leaf : 

How  well  the  soldier  battled  for  the  truth, 

And  justified  the  promise  of  his  youth, 

With  real  sword  and  gun  how  bravely  fought 

In  mightier  war  than  school-day  history  taught; 

How,  wounded  and  a  prisoner,  he  bore 

The  heaviest  burden  that  a  patriot  wore  ; 

And  how,  with  shattered  health  and  wearied  form, 

No  longer  fit  to  face  the  battle  storm, 

He  turned  reluctant  from  the  field  of  strife, 

And  won  the  honors  of  a  civic  life, 

Is  blazoned  in  a  history  that  would  shame 

The  old  time  conqueror  for  power  and  fame. 

His  record  is  our  pride — it  should  be  yours — 

An  aid  when  baser  influence  allures — 

A  living  lesson  that  shall  fairly  teach 

What  honors  lie  within  a  willing  reach, 

For  he  was  one  of  many  that  we  know 

Who  filled  these  benches  not  so  long  ago ; 

I  only  sketch  this  lad  from  out  the  rest 

Because  I  chance  to  know  his  history  best, 

And  (I  may  say  it  with  a  proper  pride) 

Because  of  friendship  long  and  truly  tried. 


(KB) 


A  word  for  one  whose  loved  and  absent  face 

Has  left  a  sacred  memory  in  this  place, — 

The  dear  old  teacher  of  that  earlier  day, 

Whose  mortal  form  has  just  been  laid  away. 

Kindest  of  men,  he  lingers  in  my  thought 

As  one  whose  love  transcended  what  he  taught. 

In  those  old  times  when  flogging  ruled  the  hour 

And  muscle  more  than  knowledge  far  was  power, — 

When  teachers  thought  their  day's  work  not  performed 

Unless  a  dozen  jackets  they  had  warmed, 

His  kindly  love  his  sense  of  justice  swerved 

And  never  gave  us  half  that  we  deserved. 

Peace  to  the  record  of  so  many  years 

That  leaves  no  cause  for  grief,  no  room  for  tears, 

Only  the  sad  regret  when  all  is  past, 

That  lives  so  true  cannot  forever  last. 

Grave  shadows  flit  within  these  walls  to-day  ; 

At  Memory's  call  I  see  the  little  world 
Wherein  my  youthful  banners  were  unfurled 
In  many  a  briskly-fought  scholastic  fray  : 
Long  years  have  passed  since  I,  a  careless  lad, 

Answered  the  roll-call  from  this  very  floor, 
Sat  at  these  desks,  made  record  good  or  bad, 

And  longed  for  what  the  Future  held  in  store  : 
It  seems  so  like  a  dream — this  backward  look — 
Back  to  the  distant  time  of  slate  and  book ; 
When  care  was  yet  unborn  and  Life  all  hope, 
Seen  clear  and  bright  through  Youth's  glad  horoscope. 
The  eye  may  dim  with  years,  but  never  blind 
To  visions  of  the  past  becomes  the  mind ; 


(104) 


The  constant  din  of  daily  life  may  dull 

The  worn  and  weary  ear  to  sounds  of  earth, 

But  none  the  less  shall  echo  clear  and  full 
That  far-off  youthful  revelry  and  mirth. 

And  not  all  reminiscences  are  sad  ; 

'Tis  only  those  that  waken  keen  regret 

For  grievous  errors  we  would  fain  forget, 

Or  as  we  think  of  Life's  work  unfulfilled, 

AVhere  Death  some  youthful  heart  and  pulse  has  stilled, 

That  retrospect  in  sombre  garb  is  clad : 

But  peeping  through  the  memory-laden  mists, 
Are  sunny  rifts  of  bright  and  joyous  hue, 
As  childhood's  hours  are  reproduced  anew, 
And  quaint  remembrances  of  bygone  days, 
Of  sundry  curious  boyish  pranks  and  plays 

Remind  us  that  our  boyhood  still  exists. 

Cherish  those  thoughts  of  childhood,  girl  and  boy ; 
Cling  to  the  airy  castles  of  your  youth ; 

Let  not  the  wear  and  tear  of  life  destroy 
Your  earlier  dreams  of  innocence  and  truth, 

For  age  in  waning  years  turns  back  to  these, 
With  longing  look  and  with  a  hungry  heart, 

And  counts  its  comforts  as  the  glance  may  please, 
Of  scenes  wherein  we  bore  an  honored  part. 


i     11  (HV5) 


AT  AN  ALDERMANIC  SUPPER. 


ON  RETIRING  FROM  OFFICE. 


There  preached  a  parson  in  the  olden  time, 
Who  fondly  hoped  to  glean  a  vagrant  dime, 
When  preacher's  salaries  did  not  wax  fat, 
By  passing  'round  among  his  flock,  his  hat: 
He  labored  zealously  one  Sabbath  through, 
As  old-time  ministers  were  wont  to  do, 
Warmed  to  the  task  with  an  unusual  fire, 
To  prove  the  "laborer  worthy  of  his  hire." 
Somehow  or  other  his  remarks  fell  cold 
And  failed  to  have  a  grip  upon  the  fold, 
And  for  some  reason  which  is  unexplained 
His  plea  for  recompense  was  not  sustained. 
The  sermon  done,  round  went  the  parson's  tile 
In  expectation  of  a  generous  pile, 
But  states  the  tale — "the  hat,  we  grieve  to  say, 
Returned  as  empty  as  it  went  away." 
The  saddened  preacher  with  despondent  mien, 
Took  in  the  disappointment  of  the  scene; 
Then  as  all  well-bred  Christian  teachers  ought, 
Found  comfort  in  a  last  relieving  thought ; — 


(106) 


"For  joys  prospective,  he  but  little  cared  ; 
Sufficient  unto  him  the  blessing  spared ;" 
And  so  with  grateful  heart  and  tone  devout, 
His  prayer  of  Christian  thankfulness  went  out 
As  on  his  graceless  flock  his  glance  was  cast— 
"Thank  God,  I  have  my  beaver  back  at  last." 

yiy  Aldermanic  service  through,  I  find 

This  old-time  incident  brought  back  to  mind  ; 

Like  the  poor  preacher  have  I  had  my  day 

Of  thankless  service  and  of  doubtful  pay ; 

Like  him  I  too  have  passed  the  hat  around 

Hoping  for  some  approving  word  or  sound, 

And  like  his,  also,  was  response  so  rare, 

It  must  have  died  upon  the  empty  air ; 

But  yet  like  him  I  have  a  solace  left, 

From  which  in  no  way  can  I  be  bereft ; — 

For  what  I  failed  to  get  I'll  not  repine  ; 

For  what  is  spared  me,  gratitude  be  mine  ; 

No  more  I  stand  in  dread  of  critic  sneers 

From  which  I  vainly  strive  to  close  my  ears  ; 

Xo  more  am  I  compelled  with  stumbling  feet 

To  locate  Dean  Street  Bridge  or  Scadding  Street ; 

Nor  'mid  confusing  claims,  beset  to  mark 

The  best  location  for  a  Public  Park ; 

The  wooden  structure  and  the  hitching  post ; 

The  taxes,  sewers,  street  lights,  and  a  host 

Of  other  vexing  questions,  pro  and  con, 

AVhich  city  fathers  needs  must  pass  upon  ; 

With  some  of  which  old  Solon  might  have  failed. 

And  famed  Lycurgus  in  his  best  days  paled ; 


(107) 


Whose  knotted  mazes  we  have  struggled  through, 

To  learn,  alas,  how  little  each  one  knew. 

Never  again  shall  license  question  serve 

To  test  the  strength  of  Aldermanic  nerve  ; 

Cursed,  not  alone  by  those  who  buy  and  sell, 

But  damned  by  Prohibitionist  as  well — 

A  paradox  for  some  one  to  define, 

Whose  brain  is  more  circuituous  than  mine ; — 

These  all  are  phantoms  now  at  which  I  smile, 

And  wonder  why  I  dreaded  them  the  while  ; 

Content  am  I  in  private  life,  to  wave 

A  flag  of  truce  above  their  peaceful  grave, 

Where,  by  the  grace  of  Heaven,  may  they  stay 

Until  the  final  trump  of  Judgment  Day, 

When  eveiy  Alderman  shall  have  his  due 

In  high-toned  glory  or  sulphuric  blue. 

As  the  poor  preacher  with  spasmodic  glee, 

Snatched  from  defeat  a  gleam  of  victory, 

And  in  a  heaven-born  philosophic  mood 

Could  recognize  none  other  than  the  good, 

So  I,  though  shorn  of  my  official  power, 

Look  only  at  the  vantage  of  the  hour, 

And  shout  with  more  of  pleasure  than  of  pain — 

"Thank  Heaven !  I  have  my  freedom  back  again." 


(168) 


FOR  A  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 


My  dear  ycmng  friends  of  fifty  wedded  years; — 

So  young  that  we  can  scarce  believe  the  tale : 
Old  age  with  gathering  shadows  disappears 

And  in  your  sunlight  youthful  thoughts  prevail. 
The  frosts  of  Time  have  little  power  to  chill 

The  sunny  smiles  that  rest  upon  your  brow, 
And  you  can  mount  the  summit  of  Life's  hill 

With  glad  remembrance  of  your  youthful  vow. 
We  speak  of  angels,  and  the  skeptics  scoff, 

As  if  such  curious  creatures  could  not  be, 
Or,  at  the  best  they  live  perchance,  far  off, 

With  wings  and  halos  mortals  never  see : 
But  I  may  banish  angels  from  my  thought, 

So  long,  dear  friends,  as  I  may  think  of  you : 
The  pictures  drawn  by  preacher  never  taught 

Of  human  lives  more  faithful  or  more  true. 
Long  may  you  cheer  us  with  your  happy  guise 

So  graceful  worn  and  with  such  sweet  content, 
And  may  the  friends  you  cherish  duly  prize 

The  kindly  blessing  which  your  love  has  sent 


(169) 


AT  A  SILVER  WEDDING. 


After  the  Parson,  in  descending  rank, 
At  times  like  this,  conies  the  poetic  crank  : — 
A  grievous  tumble  from  the  heights  sublime, 
From  preacher's  eloquence  to  huckster's  rhyme  ; 
And  yet  the  philosophic  view  of  ill, 
Which  finds  a  virtue  in  the  weakest  pill, 
And  which,  whenever  rightly  understood, 
Evokes  from  eveiy  form  of  evil,  good, 
Presents  a  strong  hypothesis  to  back  it ; 
Which  starts  me  on  a  little  story  racket. 

An  ancient  darkey,  (so  the  story  ran,) 
Struck  out  for  pleasure  on  a  novel  plan, 
And  like  a  monk  doing  penance  for  his  sins, 
Sat  by  the  roadside,  pommeling  his  shins. 
Now  all  men  whether  college-bred  or  not, 
Know  of  a  colored  brother's  tender  spot, 
And  why  this  ancient  gent  in  native  black, 
Should  wantonly  his  tender  organs  whack, 
Was  quite  a  puzzle  to  the  passers  by, 
Who  watched  the  sufferer  with  a  curious  eye, 
Till  one  kind  soul  with  sympathetic  bump, 
Whose  heart  endured  a  pang  with  every  thump, 


Advanced  a  small  conundrum  as  a  starter: 

"What  was  the  need  to  pose  as  such  a  martyr?" 

The  sable  brother  with  a  radiant  smile, 

Betokening  Heaven-born  comfort  all  the  while, 

Although  forsooth,  his  inward  stress  of  soul 

Revealed  his  fitness  for  St.  Stephen's  role, 

Threw  out  a  new  philosophy  of  pain, 

Which  showed  he  had  not  lived  and  learned  in  vain  ;- 

The  soothing  joy  when  pain  was  over,  brought 

Full  compensation  for  the  suffering  wrought ; 

To  use  an  explanation  of  his  making, — 

"It  done  feel  better  when  it  get  through  aching." 

And  here  the  moral  of  our  story  fits ; — 

All  I  can  offer  from  my  scattering  wits, 

As  any  contribution  to  your  fun, 

Is  the  relief  you'll  feel  when  I  am  done. 

But  friends,  I  take  a  measure  of  delight 
In  speaking  up  my  little  piece  to-night ; 
It's  very  seldom  that  I  have  a  chance, 
Where  every  point  of  fact  and  circumstance 
Permits  a  chap  to  say  so  much  that's  good, 
And  not  mix  in  some  taffy  with  the  food. 
When  one  so  many  years  has  played  his  part 
A  well  known  figure  in  the  public  mart, — 
Never  at  any  time,  so  far  as  heard, 
Unworthy  either  in  his  act  or  word ; 
And  in  his  record  nothing  can  offend, 
Either  as  soldier,  citizen  or  friend ; 
Who,  when  a  charity  is  talked  about, 
Offers  to  turn  his  pockets  inside  out ; 


(171) 


Has  always  paid  his  honest  debts  in  full, 
And  never  palmed  off  shoddy  for  all-wool ; 
Who  pays  his  pew-tax  promptly  at  the  call, 
And  sleeps  through  service  little,  if  at  all  ; 
And  when  the  deacons  pass  the  box  in  church, 
Loans  me  a  quarter  if  I'm  in  the  lurch  ; 
Who  never  had  to  be  kept  after  school 
Because  he  hadn't  learned  the  Golden  Kule  ; 
And,  though  he  lay  his  Bible  on  the  shelf, 
Shows  up  the  Ten  Commandments  in  himself; 
A  man  exemplifying  chronic  good, 
Who  can't  act  mean,  and  wouldn't  if  he  could; 
Who  always  keeps  his  cheerful  side  in  sight, — 
This  is  the  man  we're  showing  up  to-night. 

Now  as  the  press  would  say,  a  paragraph 

With  some  allusion  to  the  other  half. 

Not  posing  quite  as  plainly  as  a  mark, 

I  may  be  shooting  somewhat  in  the  dark, 

Yet  all  the  logic  of  fair  play  infers 

That  half  the  credit  of  the  house  is  hers ; 

The  wife  who  wrell  and  ably  fills  her  sphei-e 

Till  wedlock  scores  its  five  and  twentieth  year, 

Has  proved  that  when  her  husband  picked  her  out 

He  knew  quite  certain  what  he  was  about: 

That  she  has  played  domestic  partner  well, 

Speaks  for  itself  better  than  I  can  tell ; 

That  she  has  kept  her  friendships  warm  and  bright, 

Is  advertised  upon  the  cards  to-night; 

That  she  has  faithfully  performed  the  part 

Required  of  her  in  culinary  art, 


Will  scarcely  he  denier!,  if  you  will  note 
The  growing  fulness  of  her  hushancVs  coat. 
Xo  Benedict  is  quite  the  perfect  man 
AA  ith  home  a  circus  or  a  caravan ; 
Xor  can  he  long  a  cheerful  mood  retain 
With  Caudle  lectures  ringing  in  his  brain, 
And  the  true  measure  of  a  husband's  cares 
Is  often  indexed  by  the  face  he  wears. 

All  honor  to  our  worthy  host  to-night, 
Honors  are  his  bv  every  well-earned  rio-ht : 

*  * 

The  honors  of  a  true  man  born  and  bred ; 
Honors  of  kindly  heart  and  level  head; 
The  honors  of  a  life  of  many  years, 
Whose  record  calls  for  no  regretful  tears ; 
Honors  and  blessings ; — blessing  of  this  home, 
With  happiest  welcome  to  the  guests  who  come ; 
Blessed  with  a  wife,  enjoying  by  his  side, 
The  fullest  measure  of  a  wifely  pride, 
Who,  when  the  roll  of  husbands  has  its  call, 
Counts  hers  the  "noblest  Roman  of  them  all." 
Who  dares  and  has  the  right  to  think  her  spouse 
The  equal  of  the  head  of  any  house ; 
And  though  in  introducing  household  joys, 
By  some  mistake  they  counted  out  the  boys, 
One  crowning  blessing,  dutiful  and  fair, 
Reflects  the  virtues  of  the  worthy  pair. 

May  it  be  long  before  the  shadows  come 
To  cloud  the  brightness  of  this  pleasant  home, 
And  as  the  fleeting  years  of  Time  go  by, 
May  blessings,  love  and  honor  multiply. 


(ir.3) 


MEMORIAL  DAY,  1884. 

READ  AT  THE  SERVICES  OF  POST  3,  G.  A.  R. 


A  day  of  memories  of  a  sacred  past ! 

A  day  of  memories  crowding  close  and  fast, 

Waking,  in  echoes  of  a  distant  strife, 

Our  too-forgetful  reverence  to  life. 

How  little  can  a  man  of  peaceful  mood, 

Who  never  in  the  front  of  battle  stood  ; 

Whose  ear  was  not  attuned  to  martial  note 

Nor  listened  to  the  cannon's  brazen  throat ; 

Who  earned  no  laurels  in  those  troublous  days, 

Save  such  as  crown  the  Quaker's  quiet  ways, 

And  used,  in  conflict  with  his  fellow  men, 

No  keener  weapon  than  a  halting  pen ; — 

How  feebly  can  such  voices  ring  the  chimes 

That  wake  the  echoes  of  those  stirring  times, 

Where  men  have  proved,  through  valiant  heart  and  might 

Their  claim  as  heroes,  by  divinest  right  ? 

How  can  they  call  up  legends  of  the  camp — 

The  weary  march  and  wearier  midnight  tramp ; 

The  gallant  picket  at  his  lonely  post ; 

The  watchful  sentry  like  some  spectral  ghost 

Or  restless  spirit,  stalking  to  and  fro — 

A  constant  menace  to  a  treacherous  foe? 

These  to  civilians  are  historic  dreams ; 

How  can  they  build  them  into  living  themes, 

Painting  a  picture  in  their  fancy's  glow, — 

A  faithful  copy  of  that  long  ago  ? 

Who  can  call  up  in  visions  that  are  clear, 

Those  mem'ries  distant  and  yet  ever  near, 


Save  him,  the  record  of  whose  warlike  days 
Sets  all  the  fires  of  memory  ablaze? 
For  those  who  scent  the  battle  from  afar, 
Scarce  gYasp  "the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  war," 
"He  jests  at  scars  who  never  felt  a  wound," 
And  little  comprehends  of  sacred  ground, 
Whereon  his  recreant  feet  have  never  trod 
In  service  of  his  country  or  his  God. 

Life  rings  new  changes  in  its  circling  round  ; 

The  march  of  Time  knows  neither  mete  nor  bound 

A  reign  of  Peace  has  banished  with  its  spell, 

The  sadder  sounds  of  War's  funereal  knell. 

Yet  glow  those  scenes  as  vividly  to-day, 

As  if  the  years  had  never  passed  away. 

Sad  be  that  hour  and  dull  that  comrade's  soul, 

Which  answers  not  responsive  to  the  roll ; 

Which  can  forget,  in  Life's  engrossing  care, 

The  laurels  that  the  hero's  brow  should  wear ; 

And  of  all  nobler  impulse  losing  hold, 

Measures  existence  by  its  weight  in  gold. 

Not  such  the  fame  for  which  the  patriot  strives, 

As  worth  its  recompense  in  human  lives, 

But  prizing,  with  a  fond  and  sacred  pride, 

His  love  of  country  over  all  beside. 

It  needs  no  lofty  monument  to  tell 

How  these,  her  children,  served  their  country  well, 

Nor  can  a  marble  tablet  best  express 

The  record  of  a  martyr's  faithfulness. 

The  little  banner  that  so  meekly  waves 

In  mute  memorial  beside  their  graves, 


(175) 


Speaks  to  the  heart  in  truer,  tenderer  tones, 

Than  pile  on  pile  of  monumental  stones. 

God  has  implanted  in  the  human  breast, 

A  sense  of  worship  far  more  fitly  drest 

In  the  sweet  homage  of  a  simple  flower, 

Than  stately  granite  blocks  that  Heavenward  tower; 

For  these,  instead  of  trumpeting  renown, 

May  only  press  the  dust  of  cowards  down. 

In  coming  years  a  traveler's  feet  may  stray 

Where  we  have  lain  our  precious  dead  away ; 

Perchance  with  curious  thought  will  halt  beside 

Two  mounds  of  earth  that  nestle  side  by  side ; 

And  from  the  head  of  one  shall  upward  climb 

Like  some  huge  obelisk  of  ancient  time, 

A  giant  shaft,  that  in  its  height,  would  aim 

To  link  in  Heaven  with  its  owner's  name. 

Yet  all  this  vain  display  and  mock  parade — 

A  hero  worship  born  of  Mammon's  aid, 

But  little  indicates  the  real  worth 

Which  finds  a  shelter  'neath  this  mound  of  earth, — 

The  record  of  whose  tenant,  truly  told, 

But  hollow,  selfish  echoes  of  his  gold  ; 

Only  the  poor  apology  for  one    . 

Who  in  his  time,  less  good  than  ill  had  done. 

But  near  this  grandly  decorated  mound, 
The  stranger's  eye  shall  fall  on  lowlier  gonnd, 
All  unadorned  except  with  Nature's  grace; — 
Xo  stone  to  mark  its  owner's  resting  place ; 
Naught  but  a  faded  Avreath  of  immortelle 
And  the  dear  banner  that  he  loved  so  well, 


(176) 


Shall  tell  the  traveler  that  the  buried  dust 
Is  the  fond  relic  of  a  nation's  trust ; 
Yet,  in  the  verdure  of  immortal  bloom, 
The  sleeping  tenant  of  that  humbler  tomb, 
Shall  nee  I  no  pleading  voice  to  urge  the  claim 
That  lifts  his  memory  to  perennial  fame. 

These  are  our  heroes  that  we  reverence  here ; 
For  them  we  hold  such  sad  memorials  dear ; 
Backwarl  a  score  of  years  we  turn  our  thought 
To  martial  glories  and  to  battles  fought; 
Again  a  warlike  din  our  senses  greets  ; 
The  soldier's  tramp  is  ringing  through  the  streets 
-.'mm-visaged  War"  is  shadowing  peaceful  life 
And  all  the  air  is  redolent  of  strife. 
Again  we  bid  farewell  with  moistened  eye 
To  those  who  march  to  Death  or  Victory ; 
Once  more  from  every  hearthstone  in  the  North, 
The  earnest  prayers  of  loyal  hearts  go  forth  ; 
Prayers  for  the  weal  of  those  we  hold  most  dear ; 
Prayers  that  the  murky  air  of  war  might  clear, 
Bringing,  with  all  that  peace  and  quiet  lends, 
A  host  of  heroes  to  their  hosts  of  friends. 
These  are  not  dreams  but  visions  all  too  true, 
Which  sad  and  stern  realities  renew  ; 
That  tell  a  tale  of  grand  heroic  worth, 
Protecting  Freedom  in  its  right  of  birth ; 
Teaching  the  world  that  with  each  passing  year, 
Not  less  does  human  liberty  grow  dear, 
And  every  age  in  every  coming  reign, 
Shall  bring  its  heroes  to  the  front  again. 


MEMORIAL  DAY,  1894. 


THE  LAST  COMRADE. 

March  your  proudest,  honored  patriot,  while  your  step  is 
firm  and  strong ; 

Shout  your  loudest,  valiant  soldier,  as  your  voice  peals 

out  in  song ; 
Sound  your  glory  with  the  echoes  of  the  trumpet  and  the 

drum, 
That  the  story  may  be  ringing  through  the  centuries  to 

come. 

Loyal  hearts  are  warmly  throbbing  to  the  music  of  your 
tramp ; 

Memory  starts  the  songs  and  legends  of  the  bivouac  and 
camp; 

Almost  seems  the  scene  repeated,  were  it  not  that  while 

we  gaze, 
Waking  dreams  of  faltering  footsteps  cloud  the  light  of 

other  days. 

Joy  and  pleasure  wed  with  sadness  in  this  spiingtime  of 
the  year, 

And    a   measure  born  of  gladness,  kindly  mingles  with 

your  tear, 
And  you  lighten  sorrow's  burden  in  these  sadly-sacred 

hours, 
As  you  brighten  with  your  tribute  of  the  season's  fairest 

flowers. 


(178) 


But  the  ages  mock  at  memory,  and  the  time  is  all  too 
near, 

When    the   pages  of   your  hero-life  must  dim  and  dis- 
appear, 

And  your  column,  strong  and  stately  though  it  marches 
forth  to- day, 

Tells  in  solemn  notes  of  warning  that  its  strength  must 
wear  away. 

Time  is  lending  with  stern  usury   the   days  that  fly  too 

fast ; 
Backs  are  bending  with  a  burden  that  must  weigh  them 

down  at  last : 
Ranks  are  thinning  while  no  fresh  recruits  can  swell  your 

gallant  band ; 
Death  is  winning  slowly,  surely,  every  fight  with  certain 

hand. 

Have   you    never,  valiant  soldier,    as  you  decked  those 

graves  in  May, 
Thought    that   ever   in    the   future    there   must  come  a 

fateful  day, 
When    some  lonely,  weary  veteran,  last  survivor  of. his 

Post, 
Must   the    only   remnant    linger   of   a   vast  and  mighty 

host  ? 

Have   you  pondered  which  among  you  last  should  lay 

his  burden  down? 
Have  you  wondered  whose  the  weary  brow  to  wear  this 

martyr's  crown — 
Who    the    tired,    tottering  one  shall  be,  the  last  sad  tale 

to  tell, 
I'ninspire  1  by  any  sight  or  sound  of  those  he  loved  so 

well? 


As  romances  create  heroes,  with  imagination  free, 

In  my  fancies  I  have  pictured  whose  this  pilgrim-form 
might  be ; 

Lifelike,  truthful,  bright  before  me,  as  a  portrait  from 
the  sun, 

Stands  a  youthful,  boyish  volunteer  of  Eighteen  Sixty- 
one. 

Just  a  lad  when  he  enlisted,  able  scarce  his  gun  to  bear. 
But    enclad    in  knightly  spirit,  such  as  manliest  heroes 

wear ; 
And  ye  err,  who  in  your  careless  thought  speak  slightingly 

of  youth, 
Which  may  stir  with  glowing  ardor  on  the  side  of  God 

and  Truth. 

But  the  boys  are  boys  no  longer ;  youth  is  manhood, — 

manhood,  age, 
And  the  joys  of  youth  have  ripened  to  the  wisdom  of 

the  sage, 
And  though  real  yet  Life's  battle,  pressing  constant,  close 

and  fast, 
Not  less  leal  is  the  soldier  to  his  memories  of  the  past. 

How  the  faces  of  his  comrades  must  to  him  grow  doubly 

dear, 
As  he  traces  by  their  footsteps,  passing  mile  stones,  year 

by  year, 
And  what  clustering  emotions  must  be  struggling  in  his 

soul, 
As   the   mustering-out   commander  drops  another  from 

the  roll. 


(180) 


One  step  nearer  to  tha  last,  h3  thinks ; — one  nearer  to 

the  end ; 
Each  one  dearer  that  is  spared  him  now,  and  closer  as  a 

friend, 
And    his  aching  heart  rebels  at  every  summons  of  the 

Hand 
That    is  taking  surely,  one  by  one,  the  remnant  of  his 

band. 

There  must  come  a  halt  ere  long,  brave  youth ;  ah !  youth 

no  longer  now  ; 
"Nearer  home,"  with  every  passing  May,  is  traced  upon 

thy  brow, 
And  each  season  that  the  march  of  Time  is  written  on 

Life's  page 
Stamps  an  treason  youth's  brave  contest  in  its  battling 

with  Age. 

lint  within  my  fancy's  vision,  at  no  far-off  distant  day. 
With  the  din  of  conflict    lost  in  space  and  hushed  all 

hostile  fray. 
On  some  May  Memorial  morning  shall  our  soldier  boy  of 

yore 
Plod  his  way  in  painful  solitude  for  aye  and  evermore. 

Not  again  his  lot  to  decorate  the  graves  of  gallant  men ; 
Quite  in  vain  the  strength,  says  Holy  Writ,  of  four  score 

years  and  ten. 
And  it  needs  no  voice  prophetic  to    remind  the  valiant 

soul 
That  his  deeds  henceforth  can  have  no  speech  except  on 

Memory's  scroll. 


(1*1) 


Time  has  banished  with  a  cruel  hand  the  lightness  of  his 
tread  ; 

And  the  vanished  power  of  manhood's  pride  is  slumber- 
ing and  dead, 

And  the  graves  where  sleep  his  comrades,  move  him 
sadly  as  he  sees 

How  the  bi'aves  have  fallen  round  him  like  the  leaves 
from  off  the  trees. 

Stilled  the  clamor  and  the  turmoil  of  those  ancient  days 
afar ; 

Gone  the  glamour  of  the  trappings  and  the  pageantry  of 
war ; 

Pomp  and  splendor  pass  unnoticed,  relics  of  a  bygone 
age; 

True  and  tender  memories  only  mark  the  veteran's  heri- 
tage. 

Dreams  of  battles  haunt  his  visions — always  dreams  of 

battles  won, 

And  he  prattles  in  derision  as  the  foemen  break  and  run  ; 
Bloodless  fields  of  retrospection  constant  crowd  upon  his 

brain 
And   he    wields   in  thought,  with  waning  strength,  the 

ancient  sword  again. 

Nurse  thy  dreaming,  gallant  soldier, — 'tis  the  privilege 

of  years, 
That,  in  seeming,  Age  may  wear  again  its  earlier  smiles 

and  tears, 
And  the   heat  of   battle   kindles   from   the   embers    of 

decay, 

As  the  beat  of  drum  and  martial  note  shall  charm  the 
years  away. 


Fare    thee  well,  thou  faithful  sentinel  upon  thy  lonely 

round ! 
Legends  tell  in  song  and  story  of  the  pilgrim's  hallowed 

ground  ; 
But  my  thought  in  farthest  reaching  pictures  no  more 

sacred  shrine 
Richer  fraught  with  precious  memories  than  this  resting 

place  of  thine. 

May  the  God  of  battles  comfort  thee,  thou  weary  one 
and  worn  ; 

May  the  sod  that  rests  above  thee  bloom  with  each 
Memorial  morn, 

And  the  waves  of  loyal  gratitude,  in  never-ceasing  tide, 

Guard  the  graves  of  those  we  hold  so  dear  with  rever- 
ence and  pride. 


(183) 


DEDICATION 
HIGH  SCHOOL  BUILDING. 


"New  times  demand  new  measures  and  new  men.1' 
In  fond  remembrance  of  my  schoolday  ken, 
I  quote  this  fragment  of  an  old-time  verse, 
So  oft  declaimed  in  better  form  or  worse. 
To-day,  long  years  from  far-off  scbool-day  age, 
Tbe  schoolboy  once  more  stands  upon  the  stage; 
And  the  old  text  which  in  his  thoughtless  youth, 
Held  in  its  shell  an  undeveloped  truth, 
In  garb  of  newer  colors,  bright  and  warm, 
Takes  on  its  fuller  and  a  better  form. 
These  are  "new  times  ;"  farewell  for  good  or  ill, 
Those  days  whose  vivid  memories  haunt  us  still ; 
Here  also  are  "new  measures;"  who  shall  doubt 
That  newer  plans  will  crowd  the  old  ones  out, 
When  all  these  fair  surroundings  plainly  teach 
The  lesson  more  than  eloquence  of  speech. 
Here  springs  to  life  the  cherished  dream  of  years ; 
The  oft-sown  seed  of  mingled  hopes  and  fears 
Have,  after  many  seasons,  taken  root, 
And  in  this  noble  structure  borne  their  fruit. 
The  prayers  of  youths  and  maidens  in  the  past, 
Have  found  their  tardy  answer  here  at  last : 
The  prize  of  long  endeavor  has  been  won  ; 
The  perfect  work  of  Patience  bravely  done. 
And  here,  though  not  a  pedagogue  by  rule, 
Le  t  me  suggest  a  lesson  for  the  school, — 


The  simple  one  of  Patience,  seldom  learned 
In  time  to  have  its  better  use  discerned, — 
An  attribute  of  rare  intrinsic  worth, 
As  fundamental  as  the  laws  of  earth, 
By  which  the  dullest  scholar  climbs  to  heights 
Not  always  mastered  in  more  rapid  flights. 
Thank  Heaven  for  Patience  !  'Tis  a  goodly  gift, 
And  helps  us  many  a  wearying  load  to  lift, 
I  know  your  text  books  skip  it,  yet  I  think 
They  give  to  weaker  themes  their  spare  and  ink. 

But  I  forget;  I  was  not  asked  to  teach, 
Nor  make  a  long  or  dry  pedantic  speech. 
The  hour  is  one  for  joyousness  and  cheer, 
And  lighter  lines  are  more  in  order  here. 
Suppose  we  throw  the  light  on  other  scenes, 
That  seemed  familiar  to  us  in  our  teens, 
And  with  a  harmless,  retrospective  knife, 
Dissect  a  section  of  our  schoolday  life ; 
Go  back  with  me  awhile  and  take  a  look 
At  where  we  struggled  with  the  slate  and  book. 

My  memory  may  prove  a  little  slow 

With  things  that  happened  fifty  years  ago, 

But  somewhere  near  that  time,  beyond  all  doubt, 

The  primal  high  school  hung  its  banner  out ; 

Like  Barnum's  moral  and  instructive  show, 

Imparting  information  on  the  "go"; 

Halting  at  divers  points  about  the  town, 

To  polish  our  ambitious  youngsters  down. 

It  hardly  seems  in  taste  to  criticise 

The  methods  wrhich  our  fathers  reckoned  wise, 


(1*5) 


Yet  one  can  scarce  repress  a  quiet  smile 
At  thought  of  schooling  in  this  novel  style. 
By  whom  conceived — this  institute  on  wheels — 
A  kind  and  most  considerate  fate  conceals, 
And  for  his  sake,  whatever  be  his  name, 
We'll  not  disturb  his  somewhat  doubtful  fame. 

But  give  the  wheel  of  Time  a  few  more  whirls, 

And  interview  our  class  of  boys  and  girls ; 

For  here  we  are  at  home  and  vouch  for  facts 

No  more  in  question  than  the  Book  of  Acts. 

Here  was  the  high  school  that  had  come  to  stay ; 

The  nucleus  of  this  perfect  plant  to-day. 

Survey  a  sketch  of  our  old  schoolday  lot, 

Drawn  by  our  special  artist  on  the  spot : 

Location,  Spring  street ;  on  a  grassy  perch, 

A  grand  old  ruin  of  a  worn-out  church. 

No  longer  fit  for  Christians,  but  preserved 

As  being  quite  as  good  as  we  deserved.' 

Its  architecture,  one  might  safe  remark, 

In  many  points  bore  semblance  to  the  Ark  ; 

Good  ventilation  (of  a  certain  class,) 

Maintained  through  sundry  fractured  lights  of  glass; 

Only  one  stove  to  heat  a  boundless  space ; 

(Comfort  in  school  was  ruled  quite  out  of  place). 

A  mile  of  rusty  stovepipe,  more  or  less, 

Whose  battered  joints  were  pictures  of  distress; 

And  furniture  (so  styled  in  playful  way,) 

Would  scandalize  the  junkshop  of  to-day. 

This  was  our  high  school,  and  with  tools  like  these, 

Your  charter  members  worked  their  first  degrees ; 


(1*6) 


And  here  was  exercised  the  proud  pursuit 

Of  teaching  young  ideas  how  to  shoot. 

"Poor  chance  for  markmanship,"  perhaps  you  say, 

But  yet,  my  doubting  friends,  we  blazed  away, 

And  here  record  for  those  inclined  to  laugh, 

That  our  old  mill  ground  out  more  wheat  than  chaff. 

Within  those  shaky  walls  were  castles  built, 

That  shone  and  dazzled  with  resplendent  gilt. 

Oft,  by  the  aid  of  fancy's  magic  power, 

We  made  our  fortune  in  a  single  hour; 

Not  difficult  just  then,  but  yet  a  feat 

Which,  later  on,  not  many  could  repeat. 

There  embryotic  statesmen  pulled  the  wires 

Of  juvenile  political  desires ; 

The  young  physician  there  his  plans  would  nurse 

To  bleed  the  race  in  body  and  in  purse  ; 

Unconscious  that  where  one  his  skill  might  save, 

As  many  more  he  hurried  to  the  grave. 

Our  would-be  lawyers  then  had  never  dreamed 

That  Justice  wasn't  always  what  it  seemed, 

And  that  their  greatest  victories  must  be  won 

In  efforts  to  prevent  its  being  done; 

Hence  our  attorneys,  in  their  guileless  youth, 

Arways  defended  Innocence  and  Truth, 

A  practice  growing  sadly  out  of  vogue, 

When  almost  every  client  proves  a  rogue, 

And  bribes  so  often  stimulate  the  brief, 

That  lawyers  thrive  while  Justice  comes  to  grief. 

Poets  were  more  than  scarce,  as  doth  appear, 

Else  would  your  humble  servant  not  be  here, 

A  painful  recollection  of  his  time 

Being  a  censure  of  his  doggerel  rhyme. 

(1*7) 


I  ft  every  branch  of  science,  trade  and  art, 
Our  little  world  of  scholars  had  its  part ; 
Each  individual  life  a  mimic  plan 
To  mark  the  future  of  the  coming  man. 

Now,  looking  at  the  picture  we  have  drawn 
Of  our  old  high  school  in  its  early  dawn, 
One  can't  help  being  tempted  to  contrast 
The  value  of  the  present  with  the  past; 
If  in  that  worn-out  antiquated  shell, 
We  worked  up  scholars  tolerably  well, 
So,  by  sound  logic,  here  should  graduate 
Scholastic  merit  in  its  highest  state. 
JVIay  teachers  find  their  efforts  not  in  vain 
To  bring  their  labor  to  a  higher  plane  ; 
Not  high  alone  in  theoretic  form, 
Some  ornamental,  classic  height  to  storm, 
But  leading  pupils  on  with  less  pretence, 
On  the  broad  basis  of  good  common  sense. 
Your  Greek  and  Latin  and  such  things  as  these, 
Buy  little  in  the  marts  of  bread  and  cheese, 
And  though  man  may  not  live  by  bread  alone, 
Without  it  he  could  scarcely  hold  his  own. 
Let  not  the  cynic,  in  a  sneering  way, 
Propound  that  school  conundrum  of  to-day, — 
"How  far  the  scholar  can  be  crammed  for  show, 
To  gild  and  hide  the  little  he  may  know." 
Somewhat  sarcastic,  but  in  measure  true, 
Where  one  is  crowding  too  much  study  through. 
These  are  but  crude  and  homely  hints  from  one 
Who  rates  the  worth  of  life  by  labor  done  ; 


(mi 


Whose  struggle  with  the  Fates  long  since  dispelled 

All  playful  fancies  that  his  schooldays  held; 

For  life  means  business  to  the  man  of  years,— 

Often  a  gift  of  bitterness  and  tears, 

Through  which  the  weary  worker  seeks  in  vain 

Some  compensation  for  his  toil  and  pain. 

And  it  might  come  in  hours  like  this,  perchance, 

C'ould  some  old  memory  or  backward  glance 

But  picture  us  again  as  girls  and  boys 

And  make  us  grateful  for  those  earlier  joys. 

In  hours  of  sober  thought  and  solitude, 

I  wander  through  the  past  in  reverent  mood. 

Bidding  all  present  care  awhile  to  go, 

I  walk  again  the  paths  I  used  to  know. 

The  pictures  of  my  boyhood  greet  my  sight ; 

The  sports  and  pranks  of  youth  once  more  delight ; 

The  dead  past's  ghosts  have  not  been  called  in  vain 

And  I  am  back  with  youthful  friends  again. 

The  sound  of  voices  stilled  with  vanished  years 

Again  in  happiest  cadence  fills  my  ears; 

Hands  long  since  done  with  busy  life,  once  more 

I J each  out  in  greeting  as  in  days  of  yore. 

Only  a  moment  will  the  picture  stay ; 

Before  to-day's  strong  light  soon  fade  away 

Those  dim  and  dusty  memories  that  hold 

So  much,  alas !  that  never  can  be  told. 

Ah,  me !  how  everything  has  changed  since  then  ; 

Girls  are  grave  matrons  and  the  boys  staid  men ; 

If  that  were  all, — were  cruel  fate  content 

To  spare  the  friends  that  Providence  has  lent, 

E'en  though  its  heavy  hand  of  care  had  torn 

Away  the  joyous  look  that  youth  had  worn ; 

(IS'J) 


If  this  might  be  and  that  they  had  not  died, 
Bat  lived  with  us  and  labored  by  our  side, 
Then  added  joys  might  be  the  sum  of  years 
And  smiles  their  heritage  instead  of  tears. 

Forgive  me  if  I  linger  here  too  long, 

But  tides  of  memory  run  swift  and  strong, 

And  here,  in  freshly  consecrated  walls 

Of  new  and  brighter  hopes,  their  shadow  falls. 

I  would  not  dare  its  presence  to  ignore, 

Xor  pass  its  hallowing  influence  lightly  o'er. 

So  much  that  helps  to  hold  the  future  fast 

Comes  from  the  inspiration  of  the  past, 

That  who  omits  this  factor  in  the  strife 

Has  not  yet  learned  the  rudiments  of  life. 

31  ay  scholars  of  the  future  not  despise 

The  steps  by  which  their  fathers  sought  to  rise, 

Nor  fancy,  with  inordinate  conceit, 

That  their  success  is  sure  to  be  complete. 

For  no  school  edifice,  however  grand, 

Can  create  finished  scholars  at  command  ; 

"Fine  feathers  make  fine  birds,"  yet,  none  the  less, 

A  bird  may  sweetly  sing  in  plainer  dress. 

But  in  so  far  as  scholarship  depends 

On  all  the  aid  that  taste  and  beauty  lends; 

If  comfort  helps  to  lubricate  the  mind 

And  make  its  problems  easier  to  unwind  ; 

If  with  good  ventilation,  light  and  air, 

Good  health  may  also  claim  an  added  share ; 

Then  are  you  blessed  beyond  your  father's  day, 

With  gifts  which  tax  your  utmost  to  repay, 


(UK)) 


IJepay  by  earnest  effort  constant  made; 

By  manhood  of  a  higher,  nobler  grade ; 

By  kindly  thought  and  praise  to  others  given, 

Who,  friendless  and  unhelped,  have  hopeless  striven. 

In  poring  over  books  do  not  forget 

The  graces  in  which  character  is  set ; 

Instil  the  primal  virtues  in  the  mind ; 

Be  not  ungrateful,  selfish  nor  unkind ; 

The  world  needs  book- lore  only  as  it  lifts 

The  race  from  out  desponding  sloughs  and  drifts. 

By  such  results  your  fathers  shall  be  told 

In  what  esteem  their  liberal  gift  you  hold ; 

Let  not  the  end  for  lack  of  effort  made 

Give  rise  to  any  thought  of  hope  betrayed. 

And  now  your  bard  an  item  would  rehearse 
To  give  a  tone  of  moral  to  his  verse : 
When  called  upon  to  take  this  part  to-day 
He  very  promptly  in  his  mind  said,  "Nay ; 
Some  other  one  than  I  must  fill  the  bill, 
The  task  is  one  that's  quite  beyond  my  skill." 
But,  meeting  with  a  friend  whose  level  head, 
When  mine  was  weak,  I've  often  used  instead, 
Was  plainly  told  that  no  one  ought  to  shirk 
Even  what  seemed  most  uncongenial  work. 
I  saw  the  point,  was  conquered,  and  I  came ; 
If  I  have  bored  you,  on  him  rests  the  blame ; 
And  yet  his  reasoning  was  doubtless  sound, — 
"Wherever  needed,  be  your  service  found." 
No  better  lesson  can  the  hour  suggest; 
Let  duty  solve  all  doubts  and  do  your  best. 


250TH  ANNIVERSARY 

OF 

SETTLEMENT  OF  TAUNTON. 


A.  staunch  old  proverb  in  parental  tone 

Sagely  remarks — "Let  well  enough  alone  ;" 

The  tale  is  told — and  fitly  told;  what  need 

That  T,  whose  tribute  must  be  weak  indeed, 

Should  dim,  by  thoughts  whose  lightness  might  profane, 

The  charm  these  reminiscent  hours  contain  ? 

But  Fashion,  with  its  many  curious  laws, 

Writes  in  its  code  an  after-dinner  clause, 

And  this  provides  that  though  profuse  the  feast, 

Yet  shall  the  list  of  viands  be  increased 

By  adding  superfluities  thereto, 

To  tempt  the  pampered  appetite  anew ; 

Thus  was  I  summoned  to  this  bounteous  spread, 

Whose  guests  already  have  been  overfed, 

Upon  the  chance  presumption — we  will  say — 

That  I  might  have  some  dainty  stored  away : 

And  as  the  Jester  at  the  kingly  court, 

Must  needs  contribute  to  the  festive  sport, 

Though  airy  chaff  and  jokes  but  feebly  made, 

May  be,  perchance,  his  only  stock  in  trade, 

So  I,  though  neither  king  nor  lord  decree, 

Will  all  too  gladly  seal  my  loyalty, 


And,  minus  cap  and  hells,  will  forge  and  cast 

My  link  to  chain  the  Present  with  the  Past. 

Two  centuries  and  a  half  have  bottled  up 

The  wine  we  pour  to-day  from  memory's  cnp, 

And  who  may  censure  if  the  overflow 

Should  swamp  some  champion's  wit  and  lay  him  low? 

What  would  your  ideal  Yankee  be  without 

His  proud  prerogative  to  sing  and  shout  ? 

Deal  gently,  then,  with  every  awkward  slip, 

If,  in  exuberance,  the  Muse  should  trip, 

And  while  it  labors  for  the  public  weal, 

P'orget  its  follies  and  applaud  its  zeal. 

What  mines  of  thought  they  delve  who  backward  reach 
Two  cycles  and  a  half,  a  century  each! 
Even  the  years  one  human  life  can  span, 
Have  almost  seemed  to  change  Creation's  plan — 
So  full  our  world,  so  barren  must  have  been 
The  fields  in  which  our  sires  were  wont  to  glean. 
Trouble  and  hardship,  dangei  and  distress 
Haunted  the  old  Colonial  wilderness, 
And  rose  the  morning  sun  from  day  to  day, 
Upon  a  bleak  and  almost  cheerless  way. 
Existence  was  no  pastime  played  in  bowers 
Of  Fancy's  framing  decked  with  Fortune's  flowers, 
Where  ugly  shadows  in  each  pathway  crept, 
And  banished  comfort  even  while  they  slept. 
Pleasure  was  shorn  of  all  its  keenest  zest, 
And  happiest  moments  were  but  feebly  blest; 
They  saw  not  as  have  these — their  children,  seen — 
A  Canaan  with  its  fields  of  living  green, 


(HIS) 


Each  hour  some  new-born  joy  or  glad  surprise, 
And  Earth  reflecting  gleams  of  Paradise. 
Within  the  narrow  circle  of  their  lot, 
The}'  moved  in  line  precise  and  faltered  not, 
And  welcomed  hardship  with  a  joyous  pride, 
If  but  the  Lord  of  hosts  was  satisfied. 

Could  some  \ran-\Vinkle  of  that  Pilgrim  band 
Rouse  from  his  lethargy  at  our  command 
And  stalk  abroad  upon  the  city  street, 
Our  programme  of  to-day  had  been  complete  : 
The  pen  of  Irving  would  have  cried  a  halt, 
And  Jefferson's  'keen  art  have  been  at  fault 
To  frame  a  picture  of  the  waking  dream 
Of  one  who  thus  should  voyage  Oblivion's  stream. 
The  swiftly  passing  years  have  wrought  a  change 
Beyond  Imagination's  wildest  range, 
And  he  in  veriest  truthfulness  might  say — 
"A  thousand  years  of  his  were  as  our  day." 
An  age  of  Science  has  affirmed  its  place, 
And  Art  is  pressing  Nature  in  the  race. 
No  longer  is  the  restless  soul  content 
With  blessing  in  its  crudest  element, 
But  Life  is  pouring  on  us  to  the  fill, 
In  untold  measure  of  developed  skill. 
The  world  of  art,  the  landscape  and  the  field 
In  richer  fullness  of  their  harvests  yield. 
The  fruits  that  deck  our  Autumn's  diadem 
With  golden  gems,  were  quite  unknown  to  them  ; 
Even  the  flower  that  by  the  wayside  grew, 
Has  changed  its  tint  and  wears  a  lovelier  hue : 


From  rudest  plant  that  bloomed  on  sterile  waste, 

A  dozen  cultured  scions  charm  the  taste, 

And  fresh-born  floriculture,  rich  and  fair, 

Shall  greet  the  wakened  vision  everywhere. 

What  shall  he  think  when  even  Xature  moves 

In  paths  so  foreign  to  her  old-time  grooves? 

With  firm  allegiance  to  the  God  he  served, 

His  faith  in  miracles  had  never  swerved, 

But  those  were  dimly  scrolled  on  History's  page — 

A  mystic  record  of  a  far-off  age, 

While  here,  beyond  his  senses  to  deny, 

Are  marvels  wrought  before  his  very  eye. 

Just  for  one  moment  bid  your  fancy  scan 

The  grim  and  startled  antiquarian  : 

In  mournful  loneliness  behold  him  stand 

A  stranger  in  the  strangest  kind  of  land, 

AVho  might  well  doubt,  'mid  scenes  so>  quaint  and  queer, 

That  ever  he  inhabited  this  sphere: 

His  untrained  senses  work  as  in  a  dream 

And  nineteenth-century  chaos  reigns  supreme : 

In  vain  the  veteran  stretches  eyes  and  ears 

For  some  familiar  sign  of  other  years ; 

"VVaa  this  the  land  that  he  was  nurtured  in — 

This  restless  ra<?e  a  portion  of  his  kin  ? 

Could  modern  genius  with  its  mighty  tread, 

Steal  such  a  march  above  his  slumb'ring  head,. 

And  progress  roll  in  such  a  tidal  wave, 

Nor  fail  to  start  the  sleeper  in  his  grave:* 

And  whence  these  wonders — from  a  source  Divine, 

Or  strange  devices  sprung  from  Satan's  mine? 

For  truly  might  this  neophyte  of  ours 

Suspect  the  working  of  Satanic  powers^ 


Where  every  whim  of  daily  life  is  hedged 

By  some  inventive  process  newly  fledged ; — 

Inventions  often  bearing  on  their  face 

Suspicions  of  a  diabolic  trace. 

What  more  infernal  to  a  casual  eye 

Than  harnessed  steam  like  fury  dashing  by, 

And  whence  these  bound  unless  to  Pluto's  realm, 

Who,  with  some  modern  Stygian  at  the  helm, 

Are  stalking  on  at  such  a  startling  speed, 

Propelled  by  fiery  breath  of  iron  steed  ? 

What  arrant  nonsense  could  be  more  complete, 

Than  shouts  the  news  boy  on  the  city  street — 

"Evening  Gazette — last  issue — all  about 

Some  old-world  king  dethroned  or  counted  out?'11 

Was  ever  stranger  tale  of  fiction  heard, 

Or  could  be  human  fancy  more  absurd — 

To  hourly  voice  the  beat  of  distant  heart 

In  lands  so  many  thousand  miles  apart, 

And  ascertain  as  with  a  lightning-flash 

The  daily  balance  of  our  foreign  cash '? 

And  yet,  old  friend,  that  doesn't  tell  it  all, 

For  hear  yon  chap  "hallooing"  at  the  wall, 

While  every  whisper  that  his  lips  convey 

Is  clearly  listened  to  for  miles  away, 

Munchausen's  monstrous  tales  are  told  anew, 

But  modern  sorcery  has  stamped  them  true; 

The  frozen  music  in  his  bugle-horn 

No  more  with  empty  echo  mocks  in  scorn, 

Since  floods  of  song  and. peal  of  merry  laugh 

Betray  the  secrets  of  the  phonograph. 

With  every  step  and  turn  our  Pilgrim  takes, 

Some  new  and  strange  discovery  he  makes ; 

(106) 


Along  the  old-time  lanes  the  street-car  wheels 

Press  with  bewildering  clatter  at  his  heels  : 

The  wayside  saplings,  shorn  as  though  by  fire, 

Are  joined  together  by  a  web  of  wire, 

Whose  pulsing  lines,  as  arteries  of  thought, 

An  instantaneous,  world-wide  voice  has  caught : 

The  tick  and  stroke  of  omnipresent  clock 

Salute  his  ear  with  nerve-disturbing  shock ; 

He  marked  his  hours,  if  we  believe  the  yarn, 

By  chasing  solar  shadows  round  the  barn, 

Or  if  the  sun  for  cause  should  fail  to  tell, 

An  hour-glass  did  the  business  quite  as  well. 

One  glance  within  a  photographic  place, 

And  lo !  his  portrait  stares  him  in  the  face, 

While  vague  remembrances  of  patience  worn, 

Struggling  with  sullen  fire  on  frosty  morn, 

Mingled  with  other  memories  which  wear 

A  dangerous  nearness  with  the  verb  "to  swear,"- 

These  all  steal  o'er  him  as  his  senses  catch 

Their  first  impressions  of  a  friction-match. 

We  have  a  proverb  held  in  honored  trust — 

"Thrice  is  he  armed  who  hath  his  quarrel  just;" 

We  render  this  upon  a  broaler  plan, 

For  six  times  armed  is  our  revolver-man  ; 

How  old  Miles  Standish  would  have  leaped  for  joy, 

Had  he  possessed  our  military  toy, 

And  Indian-hunting  would  have  had  a  boom 

To  hurry  many  a  native's  day  of  doom. 

"Twere  hard  to  tell  which  shall  impress  the  most,- 
The  merits  or  the  faults  our  age  can  boast ; 

i  13  (197) 


As  every  crown  is  mated  with  a  cross, 
And  Fate  permits  no  gain  without  some  loss, 
So  shall  our  newly-wakened  friend  find  cause 
To  frown  upon  some  strange  and  startling  flaws; 
Not  all  is  gold  that  glitters,  and,  alas — 
Too  often  flaunts  its  substitute  in  brass ; 
Utopia  still  remains  a  distant  dream 
Of  inspiration  for  the  poet's  theme, 
And  mighty  strivings  for  the  unattained, 
Leave  present  joys  unnoticed  or  disdained. 
The  press  and  push  of  Life  leave  little  room 
For  the  old  halcyon  days  of  bud  and  bloom ; 
Scarce  known  is  Youth  ;  the  infant  in  his  pride, 
Has  banished  cradle,  and  in  state  doth  ride ; 
Old-fashioned  childhood  lingers  as  a  myth ; 
Twelve-year  old  Jack  is  known  as  Mr.  Smith ; 
And  half-grown  urchins  vaunt  their  manhood  more 
Than  did  their  ancient  grandsires  at  four-score. 
Along  with  lavish  luxury  and  taste 
March  side  by  side  extravagance  and  waste ; 
From  Crcesus'  daily  meal  the  crumbs  alone 
Would  make  the  old  Thanksgiving  table  groan. 
And  God  is  mocked  in  praying  for  the  poor 
Too  often  hungering  at  the  rich  man's  door. 
Confusing  customs  lacking  seeming  sense 
Crowd  to  the  front  with  arrogant  pretense  ; 
Time  was  when  honest  people,  it  is  said, 
Pronounced  their  prayers,  and  tumbled  into  bed, 
And  deemed  a  Christian's  duty  fairly  done 
With  business  ended  at  the  set  of  sun ; 
Not  so  with  us,  who  entertain  a  freak 
Which  makes  existence  vastly  more  unique ; 


Scouting  at  Nature's  laws,  which  seem  to  mark 

Daylight  for  business,  and  for  sleep  the  dark  : 

AVe  paralyze  old  customs  and  dragoon 

The  work  of  morning  into  afternoon  : 

Thus,  paradoxical,  our  matinee 

Puts  in  its  claim  the  latter  half  of  day ; 

The  proper  dinner  is  an  evening  ront, 

And  supper  crowds  to-morrow's  breakfast  otrtr 

Disturbing  habits  by  tradition  fixed, 

And  rendering  morn  and  eve  a  little  mixed  ; 

Hence  doth  our  Pilgrim  find  the  streets  at  night 

Aglow  with  modern-born  electric  light, 

Whose  spectral  rays  glare  at  him  as  the  ghosts 

Of  fallen  stars  on  lofty  hitching  posts. 

'Tis  not  the  province  of  the  bard  to  dwell 
Whereon  the  orator  might  better  tell, 
But  sundry  notions  of  "Ye  olden  time," 
Inspire  a  passing  comment  from  our  rhyme. 
We  read  that  "should  the  Governor-elect 
Throw  that  high  office  into  disrespect 
By  non-acceptance,  when  the  public  voice 
Through  vote  unanimous  declared  their  choice, 
Due  cause  for  declination  he  must  show 
Or  pay  a  fine  of  twenty  pounds  or  so." 
Let  modern  statesmen  ruminate  on  that, 
When  next  they  pass  their  office-seeking  hat ; 
With  contrite  heart  look  back  upon  an  age 
When  politicians  scrambled  not  for  wage, 
And  when  desire  for  high  position  had 
Small  charm  to  lure  your  Puritanic  dad. 


If  Governors  were  priced  at  twenty  pounds, 
What  limit,  think  you,  of  financial  bounds 
Would  circumscribe,  at  proper  market  rate, 
Some  of  our  minor  officers  of  state, — 
Whose  Titan  struggles  for  official  loaves, 
Would  strip  the  laurels  from  a  dozen  Joves  'i 

Among  old  penalties  for  slips  from  grace, 
We  find  this  pointer  stares  us  in  the  face ; — 
Shirking  church  service  cost  the  absentee 
In  form  of  fine,  a  round  ten-shilling  fee. 
From  this  small  straw  we  find  the  truth  evolved 
Concerning  one  old  problem  long  unsolved ; 
Why  those  grim  saints  should  take  such  keen  delight 
In  service,  morning,  afternoon  and  night, 
Was  never  quite  apparent  till  we  read 
The  old  colonial  statutes  on  that  head, 
For,  facts  and  premises  brought  down  to  us, 
We  reasoned  to  a  fair  conclusion  thus — 
If  we,  whose  Sabbath  homes  are  all  aglow 
With  every  comfort  that  a  soul  can  know, 
And  piety  by  dint  of  fashion's  aid, 
Combines  devotion  with  a  dress- parade, — 
Where  inspiration  generates  in  style, 
Within  some  gorgeous  architectural  pile, 
Upon  whose  sunlit  panes  the  artist  paints 
His  grotesque  fancies  of  the  honored  saints, 
(Creating  pictures,  which  to  unschooled  eyes 
Are  those  of  angels  in  extreme  disguise) — 
With  more  than  kind  provision  made  for  those, 
Who  wish  religion  mingled  with  repose, — 


(200) 


The  studied  comfort  of  luxuriant  pews, 

Where  rhyme  and  reason  both  suggest  a  snooze, 

While  padded  floors  as  flowery  beds  of  ease, 

Turn  most  invitingly  to  bended  knees, 

With  cultured  choir,  who  render  in  their  strains, 

All  shades  of  meaning  which  that  noun  contains ; — 

And  last,  though  not  by  any  means  the  least, 

The  easy  eloquence  of  gifted  priest, 

Whose  rarely  used  anathemas  are  hurled 

AYith  much  discretion  at  the  outside  world, 

Thereby  implying  that  his  favored  flock 

Are  no  prospective  part  of  Satan's  stock, 

If  all  this  panoply  of  Christian  art 

Wake  not  devotion  in  the  modern  heart, 

What  strange  inducement,  human  or  divine 

Compelled  attendance  at  the  Pilgrim's  shrine  ? 

Surely,  not  comfort  lured  the  devotee 

In  paths,  where,  plainly,  comfort  could  not  be, 

Nor  could  the  ancient  preacher's  threatening  tones 

Bring  balm  of  soothing  to  the  sinner's  groans  ; 

The  charm  of  music  held  but  little  part, 

And  e'en  that  little  seldom  reached  high  art, 

Where  voices  unattuned  launched  into  song 

And  dragged  all  shades  of  melody  along. 

But  here  the  record  haply  solves  the  doubt 

And  lets  a  long  mysterious  secret  out ; 

Who  questions  that  a  moderate  fine  to-day 

Might  guide  and  keep  us  in  the  better  way, 

And  just  the  faintest  touch  of  sacrifice 

Develop  light  for  our  beclouded  eyes? 

Is  there  not  danger  that  the  Christian  song— 

"Salvation's  free,"  is  pitched  a  little  strong, 

(201) 


As  each  one  knows  that  what  he  values  most 
Is  so  esteemed  with  some  regard  to  cost  ? 

Another  freak  of  Pilgrim  enterprise 
Forbade  those  Sabbath  saints  to  close  their  eyes, — 
The  which  was  judged  a  pious  breach  of  peace, 
To  be  reported  to  the  town  police. 
The  old  police  at  times  were  busy  men, 
If  sermons  now  are  types  of  sermons  then  ; 
And  this  stirs  up  a  point  we  wish  to  state, — 
That  naps  in  church  are  subjects  for  debate : 
Why  should  the  pulpit  'scape  its  proper  due 
And  all  the  odium  fall  upon  the  pew  ? 
Cause  and  effect  as  equal  factors  pose, 
Which  quite  explains  the  wearied  layman's  doze. 
And  he  who  cannot  keep  his  flock  awake 
May  fairly  rate  his  calling  a  mistake. 

Ah,  well,  the  wayward  world  must  have  its  joke 
Though  souls  are  weary  and  though  hearts  be  broke  ; 
Tis  well  to  banish  carking  care  awhile, 
And  solace  sorrow  with  a  sunny  smile. 
Pleasure  and  pain  are  proper  counterparts — 
A  twin-born  heritage  of  human  hearts, 
And  whether  sadness  shrouds  us  with  its  spell, 
Joy  has  its  compensating  claims  as  well. 
Life  lacks  in  flavor  did  we  not  admit 
The  sauce  of  humor  and  the  spice  of  wit. 
And  if  our  Pilgrim  fathers  seldom  smiled 
Or  merrily  their  weary  hours  beguiled, 
Then  do  their  virtues  claim  a  brighter  hue, 
Reflected  through  an  atmosphere  so  blue. 


Methinks  our  age  in  this  has  wiser  grown 

And  taken  on  a  better,  healthier  tone ; 

No  longer  is  the  solemn  phiz  a  sign 

Of  any  kinship  to  a  life  divine, 

Nor  do  funereal  features  guarantee 

Their  owner's  conscience  altogether  free  ; 

Even  the  parson  airs  his  pun  with  grace 

And  smiles  adorn  the  worthy  deacon's  face  ; 

Dramatic  art,  so  long  beneath  the  ban, 

No  longer  horrifies  the  Puritan; 

And  Shakespeare's  shadows — (or  Lord  Bacon's — which  ?) 

Are  flitting  almost  in  the  cloister's  niche. 

It  were  an  easy  task  to  jog  along 
In  simple  verse  and  never-ending  song; 
The  brain  revolves  as  doth  a  school-boy's  top, 
And  once  in  motion  scarce  knows  when  to  stop. 
Hour  after  hour  the  Muse  might  ramble  on 
Amid  the  shadows  of  the  days  agone, 
And  newer  thoughts  and  fresher  fancies  still 
Would  throng  Imagination's  path  at  will: 
Vast  is  the  theme  and  worthy  of  the  pen 
Of  loftiest  flight  among  the  poet-ken  : 
If  but  a  master  hand  might  press  the  keys 
That  chime  our  rich  heroic  harmonies, 
Bringing  the  glories  of  the  Past  to  view 
In  tints  which  I,  poor  limner,  cannot  do 
Then  were  a  picture  drawn  so  grandly  fair, 
That  all  the  world  with  pride  its  fame  might  share ; 
But  I  must  deem  my  tribute  fittest  paid 
Through  thought  unspoken  and  with  word  unsaid, 


(203) 


Content  am  I  to  chant  in  lighter  lays 

And  wake  the  echoes  of  more  peaceful  days. 

Nor  were  our  genealogic  jubilee 
Complete  unless  we  climb  the  family  tree 
And  greet  those  scions  who  have  held  aloof 
So  many  years  from  the  maternal  roof ; 
For  Taunton  was  a  mother-town,  forsooth, 
With  wayward  children  in  their  earlier  youth, 
Who  needs  must  fold  their  tents  and,  Arab-like, 
For  fresher  fields  and  newer  pastures  strike, 
And  in  their  fond  conceit  to  go  alone, 
Must  set  up  little  townships  of  their  own, 
Around  the  hearthstone  of  their  childhood's  home, 
They  need  no  welcome,  bidding  them  to  come, 
For  in  the  free  and  easy  reach  of  all, 
Our  latchstring  hangs  upon  the  outer  wall ; 
The  mother-heart  in  self-complacent  mood, 
Has  only  plaudits  for  her  wandering  brood 
And  grants  them,  with  no  small  degree  of  pride, 
A  place  of  honor  by  the  parent's  side. 

Perchance,  when  two  more  centuries  shall  have  flown 
And  with  the  Past  our  Present  shall  be  known, 
Our  children's  children  with  their  speech  and  song 
Shall  meet  and  pass  these  compliments  along'; 
With  rev'rent  hand  shall  take  the  volume  down, 
Which  tells  the  story  of  the  grand  old  town, 
While  we,  as  Pilgrims  of  a  later  age, 
Shall  furnish  copy  for  the  second  page. 
And  will  they,  think  you,  as  our  names  are  told, 
Weave  with  our  memories  some  threads  of  gold  ? 


(204) 


Will  they  in  truthfulness  find  voice  to  say 

As  \ve  have  boasted  of  oiir  sires  to  day? 

Shall  they,  as  we  have  done,  a  story  tell, — 

That  for  our  day  and  age,  we  builded  well, 

Or  must  their  bard,  with  fetter  on  his  tongue, 

In  kindness  leave  our  eulogy  unsung  ? 

Duty  enlarges  with  advancing  years; 

Louder  our  call  than  that  which  reached  the  ears 

Of  those  whose  narrow  pathway  day  by  day, 

Within  the  handbreadth  of  a  circle  lay ; 

Shall  our  ten  talents,  coined  of  brightest  gold, 

For  lack  of  use  grow  dim  with  rust  and  mould, 

Nor  richer  harvest  reap  than  they  have  done, 

To  whom  the  Master  trusted  with  but  one? 

And  here  a  lesson  read,  you  whose  life  toil 

Has  been  a  struggle  mainly  for  its  spoil — 

You  who  have  gathered  honey  all  your  lives 

Like  human  bees  in  mercenary  hives — 

Who,  from  some  chance-born  height  of  vantage  place, 

Have  looked  not  Fate  but  Fortune  in  the  face — 

Feeding  with  golden  spoons  from  Mammon's  plates, 

With  little  thought  of  Earth's  unfortunates, — 

By  so  much  more  as  fortune's  friendly  smile, 

Through  kindly  Providence  hath  blessed  your  while 

Above  those  patient  souls  whose  lot  was  cast 

Within  a  barren  and  unfruitful  past, 

So  presses  with  an  unrelenting  claim, 

A  call  of  duty  which  to  shun  is  shame. 

Of  what  avail  the  wealth  of  millionaire, 

Whose  days  are  freighted  with  a  world  of  care, 

If  increased  riches  open  not  the  door 

For  love  and  charity  in  greater  store? 

(205) 


If  merely  counting  dollars  were  a  joy, 

Then  blessed  indeed  the  banker's  office  boy, 

Whose  fortune,  though  it  scarce  conceals  his  rags, 

Is  quite  the  equal  of  old  Moneybags. 

The  rich  may  live  and  die :  what  better  they, 

Lifeless  and  earth-bound,  than  the  common  clay, 

And  hath  not  Scripture,  as  the  text  is  given, 

Almost  denied  to  such  the  hope  of  Heaven  ? 

Let  new-born  inspiration  from  this  hour, 

Lend  to  your  gold  a  more  benignant  power ; 

Break  the  charmed  circle  which  has  wrought  this  spell 

Of  loving  wealth,  not  wisely,  but  too  well, 

And  grant  the  crowning  grace  our  city  needs 

To  round  the  record  of  her  better  deeds. 

Enlarge  her  charities  and  hush  the  sneers 

That  all  too  often  smite  our  tingling  ears ; 

With  liberal  hand  endow  the  sick  man's  home, 

Within  whose  portals  health  and  hope  may  come  ; 

Be  more  than  generous — be  just  to  those 

Who  saved  your  country  from  your  country's  foes  ; 

Spanning  these  many  years  of  retrospect, 

It  seems  a  sorry  and  a  strange  neglect, 

That  bade  those  heroes  in  despondent  mood, 

No  longer  wait  their  city's  gratitude ; 

May  those  who  ring  the  next  centennial  bell 

With  happier  voice  than  ours  their  story  tell 

Of  monumental  benefactions  strewn 

In  every  path  where  want  or  need  is  known. 

But  Time,  which  brings  all  mundane  things  to  grief, 
Bids  me  afford  your  patient  ears  relief ; 


(206) 


Yet  would  I,  ere  I  set  my  task  aside, 

Pledge  the  old  hamlet  with  a  loyal  pride ; 

Forever  be  her  memories  a  joy 

Beyond  all  hostile  fortune  to  destroy ; 

In  hours  of  needed  rest  from  toil,  I  find 

Her  charm  of  peacefulness  exceeding  kind ; 

The  trees  that  shade  her  pleasant  streets  and  ways, 

A  lingering  vestige  of  the  earlier  days, 

Are  gladsome  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  prize 

The  bounteous  gifts  which  Nature's  hand  supplies ; 

The  fields  o'er  which  I  rambled  when  a  lad, 

Then  only  with  the  simplest  verdure  clad, 

Have  laid  aside  their  coat  of  native  green, 

And  happy  home-life  paints  anew  the  scene ; 

Those  modest  cottage-homes  and  garden-plots 

Are  more  than  brown-stone  fronts  and  city  lots. 

"God  made  the  country  and  man  made  the  town," 

The  scribe  of  poesy  hath  written  down, 

And  though  both  town  and  country  God  hath  willed, 

And  each  with  tokens  of  His  goodness  filled, 

Yet  rustic  Nature  wears  a  happier  face, 

Than  ever  shone  from  out  the  market  place. 

Peace  be  within  thy  walls,  fair  home  of  ours, 
And  prospering  airs  possess  thy  sheltering  bowsers ; 
And  as  the  coming  generations  ring 
The  changes  that  successive  epochs  bring, 
May  there  be  written,  never  less  than  now, 
A  fond,  maternal  wrelcome  on  thy  brow. 
As  an  old  homestead  to  the  wearied  heart, 
Of  all  things  else  remains  a  joy  apart, 


(207) 


Reaching  with  outstretched  hand  to  every  son, 

Though  he  be  prodigal  or  prudent  one, 

So  may  this  homestead  of  a  larger  kin 

With  Memory's  echoes  lure  her  children  in. 

May  there  be  tender  voices  in  each  breeze 

That  waves  with  rustling  ripple  through  her  trees  ; 

Sermons  in  every  rock  and  stone,  which  preach 

With  more  than  human  eloquence  of  speech ; 

Books  in  her  lakes  and  brooks,  whose  magic  lore 

Charms  as  a  loving  study  evermore, 

And  good  in  all  that  tells  us  Nature's  truth, 

Which  never  quite  betrays  the  dreams  of  Youth, 

But  ever  and  anon  lights  up  the  path 

That  leads  the  toiler  toward  Life's  aftermath, 

And  he  must  senseless  be  and  dull  indeed, 

Who  in  his  Autumn  hours  has  failed  to  read 

Among  the  lessons  that  his  years  have  brought, 

That  none  were  plainer  or  more  kindly  taught, 

Than  that  which  writes  the  home  that  gave  him  birth 

As  one  among  the  dearest  spots  on  earth. 


(208) 


UCSB  LIBRARY 


;  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


111  I  Hill  Hill  Hill 


654  574     3 


